


One-winged Birds

by inkling



Series: inkling's Stoker series [3]
Category: Emergency!
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Drama, Novella, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-05-06
Updated: 2009-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:00:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 49,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkling/pseuds/inkling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bad things only happen to bad people--right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Standard "they don't belong to me they just come out to play now and then" disclaimers apply. "Emergency!" and its characters © Mark VII Productions, Inc. and Universal Studios. All rights reserved. No infringement of any copyrights or trademarks is intended or should be inferred. The settings and characters are fictitious, even when a real name may be used. Any similarity to actual persons, living or deceased, or to actual events is purely coincidental and is not intended to suggest that the events described actually occurred.
> 
> Many many thanks to my betas and cheerleaders on this one: MaryKate, MJ, Susan, and last but not least, JoAnn. This story wouldn't be nearly what it is without all of your encouragement, support. Extra special gratitude to MaryKate, who's waited two years for me to finally be able to write this particular story--and who talked me down from the ledge when I realized just exactly where Mike and a couple of other characters were pushing to take things. I'd never have gone in that barn, let along gotten out of it, without her constant belief in my ability to do so--not to mention her judicious use of Gary's penlight and Mulder's searchlight.
> 
> Technical kudos to Pat Embury, Cheryl McGowan, and Carol Boyke. Thanks for sharing so freely of your expertise, ladies!
> 
> For Allison...

__

_...and we take from our lives those days when everything moved,_

_tree, cloud, water, sun, blue between two clouds, and moon,_

_days that danced, vibrating days, chance poem...And our lives_

_are on the line. Until we die, our lives are on the mend._

_~~Richard Hugo_

Mike was working overhaul on the ground floor when Marco found the body in the basement. The choked-off scream from his shiftmate left the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

"Cap! Cap! There's a body down here!"

Rather than follow the pounding feet and excited conversations that resulted from Marco's shout, Mike returned to digging at the ancient plaster and lathe wall with his axe. Marco had said he'd found "a body", not "someone." He wasn't going to miss out on anything if he didn't go running to see right this instant. No matter what was going on elsewhere, it was his responsibility to be sure the fire was out in this room. He'd find out what was going on later--probably find out more than he wanted to know.

Cap's radioed request for a coroner floated in through the ruined window as Mike worked steadily, pulling the interior of the house apart to be sure that no spark of life remained in the fire that had partially gutted it. The old, deserted house had been a landmark in this commercialized neighborhood far longer than Mike had been driving 51's engine. With its stone exterior and the strange, overhanging construction of the second floor, the 80-year-old building had looked like a cross between a frontier fort and a medieval castle. Mike had always hoped someone would buy it and fix it up. It had a lot of character, not to mention a lot of floor space, and would have made some great offices, or a hotel, or something.

But now it was a smoking ruin, the interior gutted by man's eternal enemy: himself. They'd gotten the fire out only to find the damage inside laid out in the classic pattern of an incendiary device. Probably a Molotov cocktail or two, given the bits of glass crunching under Mike's feet. The remains of a metal-framed couch in the middle of the room sported more shattered glass and even a few stray rag fragments. Definitely a case for the arson boys. Marco's discovery only upped the ante.

Mike shuddered. The thought of dying a fire was not appealing, even if it was a danger he and his fellow firefighters faced every shift. Mostly they tried not to think about it. Hopefully this poor soul, whoever it was, had passed out from smoke inhalation before things got too hot.

More excited conversation came from the lower floor, and more feet pounded along the corridor outside the room he was working in. Mike paused and wiped at the sweat dripping from beneath the sweatband of his helmet and down his face. You'd think someone, somewhere, would find a way to make the darn headgear comfortable, at least.

"Mike?"

He let his arm drop, the axe dangling from his hand. Chet stood in the doorway to the room, Marco's face just visible over his shoulder. Both men were coated in the fine grit of ash and plaster that accompanied their work. Marco's eyes were hugely dark in the pallid velvet dust covering his face, and he shook with a minute trembling. Mike fought another shudder at the sight of his friend's distress. That body must have been a nasty sight. He hated to admit it, but he was glad he hadn't been the one to find the victim.

"Yeah?" Another swipe at the sweat running down his face, this time annoyingly along his nose.

"You about done? Cap wants us all out of here as soon as possible. Arson investigators are here."

Police? Mike shot another glance at Marco, who now looked like he might throw up at any minute. But neither he nor Chet volunteered any information about the body. Okay, Mike could take a hint. He looked around at the room, destroyed first by firebug and now by firefighter.

"Just about," he said, and the shorter man nodded.

"What's left?" Chet asked, stepping through the doorway. Marco followed, and Mike waved at the other end of the wall he was working on. Both men moved to the attack, and Mike went back to his own end. Then there was nothing but the sound of axe on plaster and wood and the falling of debris.

 

* * *

 

The cinnamon rolls never had a chance. In just under thirty seconds, five of the seven steaming, glaze-covered rolls had disappeared completely. The cookies fared better; the men seated around the large, double table in the day room concentrated on the gooey, sugary pastries for now. Mike hid his smile as he took a large bite of his own roll, his hand coming up to snare an errant raisin and guide it to his mouth. The remaining roll crouched wretchedly on the plate as five firefighters licked their lips and fingers, smoothed their moustaches and eyed the roll and each other. Mike ate his pastry slowly, savoring it, waiting to see who would be the first one to break...

"OUCH! Dammit, Gage, don't you ever trim your fingernails?"

"Oh, stow it, Kelly! I barely scratched you!"

"Weren't you two greedy guts raised with any manners at all?" Johnny and Chet both wilted under Cap's glower, Chet sucking on his injured finger. Cap glared at them for another long minute, long enough for Mike to finish his own cinnamon roll. Then, as he licked the last bit of frosting from his fingers, the tableau broke. Cap stood and reached for the remaining pastry. "Since there's only one roll left and there's only one Captain, it makes sense to me that the last roll goes to the Captain. Does anyone here have a problem with that?"

Roy smirked, Marco looked just a bit crestfallen. Johnny and Chet fell over themselves to agree with Stanley. Mike just shook his head when Cap's eyes connected with his. His commanding officer either missed or chose not to comment on the smirk Mike couldn't quite prevent. Nobody else needed to know there'd been an even dozen rolls when the plate first arrived at his house.

"Good," Cap said, and, grabbing his coffee cup, he headed swiftly out of the kitchen with his prize. Sullen silence reigned for a moment after he left, then Chet scooted his chair back.

"Hey, Gage, why don't you get me a bandage for the gouge you left on my finger."

Gage's mouth dropped open in disbelief, and he grabbed Chet's hand, peering closely at the extended finger before shoving it back at the stocky firefighter.

"Chet, that is not a gouge! That's not even a scratch. In fact, that's not even--"

"Those were great, Mike. Where did you get the cinnamon rolls?" Marco's question cut across the fight before it got a good start. He half-stood and reached for the box of cookies. Pulling it over to him, he dug for a cookie. The one he came up with disappeared in one large bite. Roy leaned over and grabbed a cookie too. Cookie in one hand, coffee cup in the other, the blonde paramedic stood and headed for the stove. Mike leaned back into his chair and shrugged.

"My neighbor." He took a long drink of his coffee, and looked up to find all the guys staring at him. Chet rolled his eyes, stood, and walked around the table to perch one hip on the other side of Mike. Johnny, in the chair kitty-corner to him, leaned forward.

"Yes, and..." Chet made a continuing motion with his hand.

Mike took another drink of his coffee, and shrugged again.

"Your neighbor?" Johnny cut in. Mike nodded. "Well, what kind of neighbor? Male? Female? Why give this stuff to you?"

"Female," Mike said, setting the cup down. He looked up to find them all still watching him. "She bakes."

"What kind of female, Mikey?" Chet was getting into it now. "Grandma? Bored housewife looking for some excitement in her life? Professional chef? You know, most girls who can cook stuff like those rolls are usually overly large and overly ugly."

Shifting in his chair and stretching out his legs, Mike shook his head.

"Nope." He kept his face straight, somehow managing not to smirk openly. "Not at all."

Exasperated, Chet sighed. He shared a disgusted glance with Johnny. In the background Marco ducked his head and grabbed another cookie. Coffee refilled, Roy settled against the counter, arms crossed over each other. He sipped his coffee and smiled slightly at Mike. Roy could appreciate subtlety--Marco, too. It was the two in front of him that rarely caught on to Mike's sly humor until it was too late.

"Mike, could you speed things up a bit here? I'd like to finish this conversation before I die of old age."

Picking up his cup, Mike just stared at Chet over the rim. Marco pulled the cookie box closer, the laughter glinting in his dark eyes now unmistakable. It made for a nice change in the firefighter's expression; since literally falling over that girl's body two shifts ago Marco had been unnaturally somber. Still leaning on the counter, Roy wasn't even bothering to hide his amusement--or his disgust.

"Girls or food, girls and food. God, you two are predictable," he said, shaking his head.

"Or pathetic," Marco added, catching the broken bit of cookie falling from his lips with the hand that wasn't already busy stuffing the cookie in his mouth. At Chet's glare, he pushed the cookie box towards his friend. Chet managed to look wounded as he appropriated a cookie for himself. One bite, and his eyebrows went up in surprise. He reached back into the box and grabbed another cookie with his other hand. Batting at the hand Johnny held out, he made a big show of picking out a cookie for the dark-haired paramedic. Johnny rolled his eyes and shook his head before snatching the small cookie Chet held out to him. The glare he gave his nemesis lasted longer than the cookie did.

Mike smiled, just a little. Didn't want to spook his prey. After having police and arson investigators crawling all over them for the last couple of shifts, they could all use a change in focus. Mike hadn't planned on orchestrating things, but hey, he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. It was time to put the gruesome discovery behind them. Helping Johnny and Chet make fools of themselves along the way was just icing on the cake.

Chet finished his cookie, and he and Johnny were once again focused entirely on Mike. Bird dogs had nothing on these two. But it was definitely better than having them obsess over just exactly why someone would tie a young woman inside a burning building.

"Okay, Mike, she's female, she's not a grandma, not a bored housewife, not a plump chef. What is she? Is she datable? Pretty? Young? Come on, man, a woman who can cook like this," Chet held up his second, half-eaten cookie, the crumbs dripping from his moustache, "is definitely worth checking out. Spill it, Mikey."

Mike finished his coffee, placed the cup on the table, turning the handle just so before he looked up at Chet and Johnny's eager expressions.

"She's a caterer."

"A caterer?"

Damn, he could almost see the wheels turning in Johnny's head when he was thinking. Biting back a smile, Mike sniffed carefully. Smell the smoke too.

"That's someone who cooks meals for parties, Johnny," Roy said, coming away from his perch long enough to snag another cookie.

"I knew that, I knew that!" Johnny griped. He shot a glare at his partner, and turned back to Mike. "So, is she young or old?"

"Young."

"How young?" Chet shot at him.

"Twenty-six."

"Married or single?" Chet again. Mouth agape and brow furrowed, Johnny was obviously still thinking.

"Single."

"Is she pretty? You know, attractive?" Johnny beat Chet to the punch that time, his hands describing an hourglass shape in the air as he spoke.

"Hey, Gage, that one had three syllables! Been reading the covers of the women's magazines at the grocery store again?"

Johnny wasted a glare on Chet, before turning his attention back to Mike.

"Well, is she?" he asked.

Mike thought about his neighbor for a minute, and then nodded.

"Yeah, she's pretty. Definitely attractive." Mike's hands echoed Johnny's earlier motion, curving through the air. Johnny sat up straighter, took a breath.

"Is she dating anyone?" Chet beat the paramedic to the punch again.

"How should I know?" Hands resting on the table now, Mike added a slightly indignant look to his act.

"Because it's your business to know, Mike, that's why. A woman who can cook like this---"

"You said that already, Chet." Marco had made some serious inroads on the cookies. Roy was peering over his shoulder at the box. His hand dipped in, and when he pulled it back held not one, but three cookies. Chet ignored both Marco and Roy, leaning forward and putting a hand on Mike's shoulder.

"Can you introduce me?"

"When can I meet her?" Johnny kept his hands to himself, but he, too, was leaning forward in his chair, grinning that goofy grin of his. Well, it might work on the girls, but not on Mike. He stared at the two of them.

"I'd like to remain on her good side, guys."

Roy snorted cookie, and choked. Marco turned around and patted him helpfully on the back. Johnny just glared. Chet lifted the hand he'd laid on Mike's shoulder and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling in a pleading gesture. Yeah, right, like divine intervention would help Chet.

"Mike, be a pal!" Chet protested after his plea went apparently unanswered. At Mike's unrepentant expression, Chet's eyes narrowed, and he rubbed his moustache thoughtfully. "Unless, that is, you've got your eye on her?"

Mike hesitated a second, then shook his head. He beckoned to Marco, and the other firefighter reluctantly pushed the box his way. Mike helped himself to two of the remaining cookies. Just because he had a jarful at home didn't mean he couldn't enjoy a few here at the station with the guys.

"Hey, wait a minute, she did all this cooking for you. Does she have a thing for you?" Johnny's suspicions didn't stop him from grabbing the cookie for which Chet was reaching. He smirked triumphantly at Chet, and took two more cookies before shoving the box toward Marco and, more importantly, out of Chet's reach. Marco happily pulled the box over and reached in.

Swallowing, Mike shook his head.

"We're neighbors, that's all. I took care of her dog while she was busy last week. The food is just her way of saying 'thanks.'"

Coffee cup in hand, Cap returned to the kitchen, making a beeline for the sink. Roy, back at his post against the counter, scooted aside, leaving room for Hank to wash the last of the icing from his hands. That done, Cap refilled his coffee cup, and then turned to watch the proceedings, bracing one arm against the counter.

"You mean all you did was watch her dog and for that she gave you this?" Johnny's incredulous gesture took in the empty plate the rolls had rested on and the nearly empty box of cookies.

Mike nodded, then smiled. He couldn't resist adding, "Last month it was a chocolate coffee cheesecake for helping her install some shelves."

There was absolute silence for a minute. Then a coffee cup thunked on a counter.

"Which, if I recall correctly, we never saw a bit of here at the station," Cap said, slowly. "And I generally recall things like chocolate coffee cheesecake very correctly."

Mike glanced over to find his leader glaring at him, arms crossed over his chest. Uh-oh... Cap had that "Latrine-Duty-For-The-Rest-Of-Your-Career" look on his face. Mike looked away quickly, hopefully before Cap could get the thought fully formed. His other shift mates looked in turn incredulous and wounded that he hadn't shared such bounty with them. Best he not gloat too much.

"It kept in the refrigerator. This stuff has to be eaten while it's fresh."

"You ate an entire chocolate cheesecake by yourself?" Johnny was definitely indignant, definitely.

Sheepishly, Mike nodded, then shook his head.

"Well, Dori had some, and so did Cara."

"Dori? Cara?" Johnny's eyebrows went up, and he shared a speculative look with Chet. "Who--"

Mike smiled.

"My neighbor and her business partner." Well, that had Johnny and Chet off the scent of the chocolate cheesecake, at least.

"Dori? CARA?" Johnny repeated, Chet's echo coming a fraction of a second later. They made a great team, even when they weren't trying. Mike stuffed the last cookie in his mouth to hide his laughter as the two men exchanged hopeful glances. Chet leaned forward, his hand on Mike's shoulder again.

"Mike, ol' buddy, ol' pal, you owe it to--"

The tones went off, and everyone jumped.

_

"Station 51. Multiple vehicle accident, with victims. Sandy Boulevard and 94th Street. Time out, 9:12"

_

"Station 51, KMG-365," Captain Stanley's voice came over the sound of their footsteps, rushing out into the vehicle bay.


	2. Chapter 2

****

**Chapter 2**

_

Still I sing bonnie boys, bonnie mad boys

Bedlam boys are bonnie,

For they all go bare and they live by the air

And they want no drink nor money

~~Traditional English Folk Song

 

_

The next day dawned cool, the air soft. It was one of those spring mornings that led songwriters to wax lyrical about the mild California climate, which in turn led to more people moving here. Mike revved his truck gently as he sat in traffic, waiting to turn left onto Maryhill Road. He could hardly complain, being an immigrant himself. The sunny climate of southern California had been one good thing about leaving home when he was seventeen..

Morning traffic was heavy; on his way home, Mike was competing with the rest of the world heading out to work. Easing the truck forward as a car made the turn ahead of him, Mike grinned to himself as he thought about the shift that had just ended. Much to the amusement of everyone else, he'd gotten Chet and Johnny thoroughly wound up about his neighbor and her business partner, dropping little hints and details about the two women throughout the twenty-four hour shift. Hopefully Dori and Cara would forgive him, but between the stalled arson investigation and the lack of runs to keep them busy, they'd needed the entertainment. The highlight of his efforts had been this morning, catching Chet and Johnny thumbing through the "caterers" section of the phone book, trying to figure out which company was Dori's. Fortunately, Mike got away before they could nail him for the actual name. He didn't think either woman would ever forgive him for actually setting Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum on them.

The good thing was, if they ever did chance to meet, Cara and Dori could easily take Johnny and Chet down a peg, or three--and hopefully Mike's name wouldn't come into it at all.

Finally there weren't any more cars ahead of him. A break in traffic, and Mike steered his truck into the turn. The Chevy bumped up and over the railroad tracks, and then he was beyond the strip malls and apartment complexes and in the midst of open fields. It always amazed him that these little oases of agriculture could exist in the midst of the sprawling city, and he was more than grateful that he'd had the money on hand when the chance came to buy a house in such a secluded area. The old farm was marked for development eventually; the fire hydrants the city water department had installed along the road last year guaranteed that. But for now, it was a small, rural paradise in the midst of urban sprawl.

Mike turned right, his truck passing under cottonwoods and oak trees, branches nodding in the faint breeze as they bent to confer with the grey wooden fence stalking along beside the asphalt. On the far edge of the fields they guarded, an old barn slowly gave ground to rampant vegetation, it's form now almost more green than silvery wood. A stark line of tall poplars extended from the barn down to the edge of Mike's own neighborhood, just beyond the barn and its attendant fields of alfalfa, darkly green in the morning light.

Across the road from the hayfield were four older homes, built in the early 1930's. A steeply sloping hill, covered with brush and scattered piñon and scrub oak trees, rose up at the back of the large yards, separating the small neighborhood from the industrial district beyond the hill. Across the street stood the original farmhouse for the property. Dori owned that, a narrow, T-shaped, two-story yellow house with white trim and a long covered porch across the front. At some point someone had added a garage and a large family room off the back left corner of the structure; that's where Dori and Cara had installed the professional kitchen for their business several months ago. Mike had done the fire inspections for them. He'd eaten like a king for the next week. He still ate like a king, whenever they needed help about the place, or when they were trying out new recipes and needed a taste-tester. Johnny and Chet were nuts if they thought he was going to give that up just so's they could strike out with the ladies--again.

He passed the first two houses set back along the gracefully curving road: the pink clapboard, home to the Pattersons and their three screaming toddlers, and the bright blue bungalow, belonging to the dentist and his wife, no kids. Slowing, Mike pulled into his own driveway, directly across the road from Dori's. Immediately past his white bungalow lived Mrs. Caraveggio. A widowed war bride from Italy, Mrs. Caraveggio was always trying to set her "nice fireman next door" up with one her innumerable grand-daughters and great nieces. She thought it an unpardonable sin that he lived alone at the ripe old age of 29, and after two years he'd given up trying to convince her otherwise.

This morning as he set the truck in park and climbed out, he was greatly relieved to see that no one seemed to be home at the Caraveggio's. Hmmm...maybe he should give Mrs. Caraveggio Johnny and Chet's phone numbers. Besides, he had been thinking about making plans to ask Cara out himself. One of these days... Jingling his keys in one hand, he grabbed the newspaper from the first step of the front porch, took the remaining two steps in one jump and let himself in the front door.

Between household chores and errands, Mike's day went by quickly. The expected phone call from Johnny and Chet never materialized. That still didn't preclude one or both of them showing up on his doorstep this evening, so Mike was contemplating a preemptive strike, calling the guys about going out to a movie or bowling. For now, though, he leaned on the door of the refrigerator, eyeing its meager contents, when a dog's frantic barking came through his open front door.

"Back off, you dumb mutt! Get away from me! Argh!" The cry was overwhelmed by a flurry of barking and growling, and then an outraged yelp. More barking and growling, fading away into the distance. Mike hit the screen door at a run. To say Dori's brother, Jason, and Puff, her Newfoundland, did not get along was putting it mildly. Usually the two gave each other a wide berth, or else Dori ran interference for them. But Mike had passed Dori and Cara heading out in their van as he was coming home from the hardware store a couple of hours earlier. That meant no one was home to rescue Jason and Puff from each other.

"NO! Goddamn, idiot dog! Get away from me!" Mike was across the street and heading down Dori's empty driveway when Jason's yells and Puff's furious barking resumed. From the sound of it, they'd run around to the back of the house. While Puff could hardly stand to be in the same room with Jason, Mike had gotten along with the big dog from the beginning. He'd already stepped in a few times between the two, when Dori wasn't around or was too busy to babysit her brother and her dog. The best solution was usually to just take Puff home with him, until Dori came home or wasn't so busy.

Mike skidded around the corner of the garage, and there was Puff. Head down, feathery tail as straight out as it could be, the dog was a malevolent shadow against the shady green lawn. A low growl rumbled through his entire body as he advanced towards Jason, who cowered against the back door inside the small porch on the other end of the addition--demonstrating an admirable vocabulary of swear words.

"Puff! NO!" Mike yelled, and was rewarded with a slight wave of the feathery tail. But Puff still advanced on Jason as Mike slid to a stop a respectful distance away.

"Get him, will ya? Damn dog, I keep telling her she's got to get a muzzle for him!" Jason's voice was shrill. Not that Mike blamed him, not with ninety pounds of pissed-off dog slavering over his skinny carcass. If he got any further up further against the house, the young man would be part of the woodwork. Mike made a shushing motion at Jason with both hands.

"Just don't move and be quiet for a minute." Mike registered Jason's outraged stare out of the corner of one eye, but didn't spare the boy any more attention. "Puff, it's all right. Come here boy," he called, as mildly and firmly as he could. This time he got a friendly swish of the tail from Puff, but the dog refused to be diverted from his target.

"Puff, come on. It's just Jason. It's all right, boy. Come on," Mike cajoled, patting his leg, but the huge dog inched ever closer to the boy.

"Just grab him or something, will ya?"

Mike ignored Jason, concentrating instead on the dog.

"Puff!" he commanded this time. "Come here!"

That earned him a glance from the dog, but then Jason made a move towards escape and all was lost.

"Get him--don't let him--Aaaaaaaaaaaah!" Jason's voice squeaked and then segued into an outright scream as Puff launched himself straight at the boy. Mike launched himself at Puff in the same instant.

For a minute he thought his shoulder was dislocated. But in spite of the pain, Mike kept his one-handed grip on the dog's red collar, even as Puff's momentum slung them both around and down to land in an awkward heap on the grass. There was another long second while Mike wondered if Puff wouldn't finish the aborted attack after all, but after apparently realizing just who it was who lay beneath him in the grass, Puff scrambled up and snorted happily in Mike's face. Mike got his other arm up just in time to fend off the dog's cheerful tongue. He shoved Puff's face away from his own. Nonplussed by the rejection, Puff sat beside Mike, tongue lolling and tail thumping gently on the ground.

Taking a better grip on the dog's collar with his good hand, Mike sat up and gingerly rotated the shoulder that had to have popped completely out of its socket when Puff's full weight hit his arm. It seemed uninjured, so he brushed the grass from his hair and his shirt and wiped dog spit on his jeans. Jason still cowered in the porch, his dark hair wet with sweat and his eyes huge with blind terror. More sweat gleamed on his face, and his mouth hung open. Mike knew the signs; he'd seen more than a few people frozen in fright in his days with the fire department.

"You all right?" he asked, standing up, yanking on the dog's collar to keep Puff at his side.

Jason blinked rapidly several times, and his mouth snapped shut. He focused on Mike, the anger radiating from him palpable. He took two steps towards them, and stopped. In the softening light of evening, his face was pasty, except for two bright red patches burning high on each cheek.

"Yeah, I'm fine, except for that damn dog!" Taking another step their direction, Jason pointed a shaking finger at the dog, and beside Mike, Puff stiffened and growled. "Dammit, I told that bi--I told her to get rid of that mutt! He's gonna kill someone one of these days. Or I'm gonna kill him for her."

"You headed out or coming home?" Mike made his question mild, but the change of subject was obvious even to Jason. Dark eyebrows drew together in a frown as he stared up at Mike, and, again, his mouth snapped shut. The look he gave Mike would have generated icicles in the Mojave. That was fine with Mike. Jason had moved in with Dori one month ago; it had taken all four neighboring households exactly one week to figure out it wasn't just Dori's dog and her brother who did not get along. No one asked, and everyone tried to pretend that no one noticed anything, Mike included. There were some lines neighbors just didn't cross. Mike'd ignored the sullen twenty-two year old's rudeness; he and Dori had been good neighbors for a year now, and that wasn't going to change because Jason and Puff couldn't decide who was the dominant male in the household.

"Out. I'm going out." Jason's growl was remarkably like Puff's, and Mike bit back a grin. Again, he tightened his grip on the dog's collar, and nodded in the direction of his own house.

"I'll take him back to my place until you're gone, then."

The only acknowledgment he got from Jason was a curt nod. Keeping Puff close to his side, Mike headed for home. As he got across the street an engine revved in the distance, growing louder until tires screeched and skidded to a halt. Mike opened his screen door and Puff trotted happily inside, claws clicking on the hardwood floor. Mike looked over his shoulder across the street. Yup, looked like it was another dude's night out for Jason and Co.

Across the street, in Dori's driveway, Jason was clambering into a dune buggy, driven by a stereotypical Southern California beach boy: sunglasses perched on top of his white-blonde hair, overly tan, and blandly good looking. Mike had mentally dubbed the boy "Surfer Bob," in honor of the ubiquitous surf boards fastened in the back of the buggy. He'd heard Dori complaining to the kid about the accumulating skid marks in her driveway, but the boy still announced his every arrival with squealing tires. Mike could have told him that his buggy wasn't that hot, wasn't nearly as hot as the dune buggy carefully parked in Mike's garage.

Watching the buggy roar away tonight, Mike decided that someday soon some engine company would be unwrapping Surfer Bob and his sporty toy car from around a tree. Hopefully it would not be with Jason inside too--or, if so, Mike at least hoped it wouldn't be 51's call. He'd hate to have to be the one to tell Dori that her brother was a jellied mess of invincible youth.

Turning away with a shake of his head, Mike opened his screen door. The phone started ringing and with three long strides he was across the living room to the phone table to grab it.

"Hello?"

Chet's voice rattled excitedly in his ear, and Mike bit back a smile. He leaned on one shoulder in the hallway door as he listened.

"Sure, you bring the drinks and food, you can watch the game over here."

Mike held the earpiece away from his ear as Chet's objection exploded from speaker. Where had Puff gotten to? He turned slowly, looking for the dog as his friend continued to sputter. Through the gap between the breakfast bar and the cabinets above it, he noticed his refrigerator door was still open. One long step had him standing in the kitchen doorway.

"HEY!"

Puff was buried head and shoulders inside Mike's refrigerator, tail wagging so hard his entire hindquarters were wriggling in glee.


	3. Chapter 3

__

_In the velvet of the darkness_

_By the silhouette of silent trees_

_They are watching, they are waiting..._

_~~Loreena McKennitt_

The arson investigators and homicide detectives returned later in the week, haunting the station during the next three shifts 51's A crew worked, and drinking more coffee than all three firefighter shifts put together. Mike shook his head as he tossed yet another empty coffee can into the garbage. Maybe they should send a bill to the police station for "beverage service." Opening a new can, he carefully measured the grounds into the pot, and added water. At the table behind him, Cap was trying to calm Chet and Marco down after this latest visit from Arson.

"Look, guys, it was a murder. A murder. Clary's just doing his job--"

"Trying to make it look like we know something we're not telling them!" Chet must have been really worked up, cutting Cap off like that. Mike adjusted the flame on the burner beneath the coffee pot as Chet continued, his voice shrill with indignance. "Why in the world would we be trying to protect an arsonist, for Christ's sake? We're the ones who have to fight the damn fires they set!"

"Amen to that," said Marco as Mike rejoined the group at the table. Cap sighed, and put his hands out in a placating gesture. Out in the vehicle bay the garage door rumbled, the squad idling outside as the panels slowly lifted.

"Look, fellas, a woman was deliberately left in that building. To die. That's murder," Cap repeated, emphasizing the word with a finger on the tabletop. Hunched over his crossed arms, Chet still looked rebellious, and Marco opened his mouth, but Cap's upraised hand indicated he still held the floor. "The detectives are just trying to get all the information they can. They're not accusing anybody here. Clary was hoping maybe one of you saw something you didn't necessarily realize was a clue." Cap waved away Chet's protest before he even got it out. "I know you don't like it, and I didn't appreciate everything about their approach myself, but they're just doing their job. And they're doing us a favor by getting people like this off the street. Surely even you can see that, Kelly."

Doors slammed in the vehicle bay, unintentionally punctuating Cap's words, and the bay door clicked its way down. Roy and Johnny walked in; hands in their pockets, the two paramedics surveyed the group in silence. Nodding at the two new arrivals, Cap said, "Personally, I'll feel a whole lot better when the freaks who pulled this stunt are behind bars. "

"Not likely to happen, " Marco said softly, "with no leads beyond the tattoo on her back. They can't even identify her yet! How are they going to catch the murderers? They don't even know who was murdered!"

"But they will," Cap insisted, though Mike wasn't quite sure which question he was answering.

Roy and Johnny headed for the coffee, looking disappointed when Mike said, "It's not ready yet." Johnny veered back to open the refrigerator; Roy continued over to lean against the counter. He surveyed the sullen faces of his crewmates.

"I take it we missed the latest visit from Lieutenant Clary and his intrepid brigade of investigators?"

"Yes, you did, and not only did they drink all the coffee again, the man was practically accusing Marco of planting the body there before he found it!" Chet was still angry, and the room exploded into sound as he and Marco both tried to explain the latest indignity from the lead investigator to the paramedics. Cap sighed, and stared at the table. Mike took a drink of his own coffee.

"It will happen again and that's when they hope to catch them." At first he didn't think anyone heard him; not surprising considering the level of noise as Johnny pulled his head out of the refrigerator and began to interject his opinions into the uproar.

"Will you twits SHUT UP! I said!" Cap's yell quieted things down, and he shook his head disgustedly before turning back to Mike. "Say that again, Mike?"

"The police think they'll do it again. That they got a big thrill out of getting away with it this time, and they'll want to do it again and maybe this time there'll be more evidence left behind."

There was a second of shocked silence, and then Johnny, Chet, and Marco all blurted out, "WHY?"

Mike stared at his coffee cup, getting all the words in place before looking up at the five faces staring intently at him.

"Because Lieutenant Clary thinks it was an amateur job. The Molotovs were made of gasoline, not kerosene. He thinks it was a spur of the moment thrill kill, maybe the result of an argument, or to cover up a ra-rape." Mike stumbled over the word, Lieutenant Clary's calm voice echoing in his memory. The man had tossed out the word out like it was an everyday thing. Maybe it was in Clary's world, but it wasn't in the world of firefighting. Mike rubbed at an imaginary spot on the table. "They're hoping at least one of those involved will feel guilty, and maybe turn himself in. Either that or they'll try again, with someone else."

His coffee was cold. Mike stood and walked over to the sink while his shiftmates thought that over. Dumping the contents of his cup out, he reached behind Roy for the fresh pot. Filling his cup, he held the pot up towards Roy. Roy twisted around and lifted two cups; Mike filled them as well. Roy headed for the empty chair beside Johnny, thunking one cup down in front of his partner, but Johnny was staring at Mike, and didn't acknowledge his partner's arrival. Mike had gotten all the way back to his chair when the silence was finally broken.

"How come you know so much, Stoker?" Johnny asked as Chet blurted, "Who filled you in and left the rest of us in the dark?"

Stanley's frown said he'd like to know the answer to that one too. Mike shrugged, and blew on his coffee when it proved too hot to drink.

"Clary was using the phone in Cap's office and didn't close the door all the way. The engine needed polishing." He took an experimental sip of his coffee and grinned as his friends voiced their approval.

"All right, Mikey!" Chet enthused, leaning back and thumping his knuckles on the table. "Way to use the ol' noggin!"

"See, Kelly, that's why Mike's an engineer and you're just a hose jockey." Johnny leaned forward, elbows on the table, and smirked at Chet. Roy rolled his eyes and sipped his own drink while Marco shook his head and smiled at Johnny.

"Gage, you're one to talk--" Kelly started, but Cap cut him off.

"Glad to see some evidence at least one of my crewmembers has a brain," said Cap, picking up his coffee cup and leaning back with his arm behind his chair. The rest of their conversation was cut off by the tones blaring in the vehicle bay.

__

_"Station 51, structure fire. 42321 West Schefflin Road. 4-2-3-2-1 West Schefflin Road, cross street Maryhill. Time out, 18:32"_

Mike's gut twisted, and he sat frozen as coffee cups dropped on the table and chairs screeched on the polished floor. Everyone else was out in the vehicle bay, and still he sat there. It wasn't until he heard Cap acknowledging the call that he found his feet. He knocked his chair over rather than scooted it back and raced out to join his crewmates, nearly running over Cap as he handed the address to Roy. Mike grabbed Cap's arm to keep them both from falling over, and then slapped the side of the squad to get Roy's attention. Startled, both Roy and Cap stared at him.

"It's my neighbor's house. Follow me, I know the fastest way there."

He barely registered Roy's nod before he was away, around Cap and then the front of the squad. It seemed to take forever to grab his turnout coat from the running board and slip into it, but at last he was in the cab of the engine and starting it up. Cap hopped up into the other seat, and the garage doors rolled up the last few feet. Roy held back and let the engine lead the way. Mike hit the sirens as he turned left onto the broad boulevard and Station 51 rolled to the rescue.

The small crowd of neighbors scattered across the street as the engine roared down Schefflin Road. The air brakes hissed as Mike brought the engine to a stop in front of the yellow farmhouse. Chet and Marco hopped out before Mike had killed the siren and cut the motor, headed for the rear of the engine and the nearby hydrant. Black smoke billowed from Dori's garage, and as Mike swung down from the driver's seat, a tall woman, her blonde hair only partially confined in a bun and her face soot blackened, ran toward them.

"Dori, she's--she's still in there! The shelf, it fell on her, I couldn't get her out!" Mike opened his mouth, but before he could call out to the frantic woman, Cap was there, grabbing her arm and pulling her around to face him.

"You say there's someone in there? Do you know where exactly?"

"She's in the kitchen, in our kitchen. She wasn't moving and I couldn't get her out, I tried! There was so much smoke when I got here, and--" Her voice broke off into a fit of coughing.

"Where?" Cap demanded.

Cara whirled and pointed at the addition, where more smoke poured from the open door.

"There! In there! Please, you have to get her out!" She coughed again, as Johnny and Roy ran up, turnout coats and air tanks on and SCBA masks dangling from their hands.

"It's okay, we'll get her out; that's our job." Cap's voice was calm, and he gently held Cara by the shoulders. She gulped, and pushed a strand of her long hair back from her face as she stared at him. "Does anyone else live here?"

"Jason--but he hasn't been home all day. We were out looking for her dog, and then Dori stayed to work on the hors d'oeuvres for tomorrow and I left to go to the store and when I got back, there was all the smoke and she was under the shelf and please, you have to get her out!" Cara's voice rose hysterically at the end of that statement, and Cap patted her shoulder gently. She started coughing again.

"That's okay, we'll get her out," Cap repeated.

Keeping one ear tuned to the conversation behind him, Mike turned to the business at hand, getting the hoses hooked up and starting the process of pumping water through the giant engine. Glancing over his shoulder at the house behind him, he saw Johnny and Roy already at the door of the addition. So far Dori and Cara's commercial kitchen seemed to be the source for the billowing smoke. Hopefully this was only a "bean pot," a fire started in the kitchen by the cook, and the rest of the house would be fine. Mike ran for the back of the engine to pull hose with Chet. Marco jogged over from the hydrant across the street to help with the hose, and Mike let him take over while he headed back around to his post at the side of the engine.

Cap left Cara for the moment, waving at the two firemen at the end of the engine.

"Chet, Marco, get that inch and a half and get in there! Mike, you ready to charge the lines?"

Cara started, and turned. Her astonished gaze met Mike's, and he smiled reassuringly at her before nodding at Stanley. Marco and Chet headed for the house, dragging the hose behind them. Cara was coughing again, and Cap came back to steer her over to sit on the running board near Mike.

"Here, sit down and let me get you some oxygen." Cara sat obediently, shivering and staring worriedly at the house in front of them.

Mike watched the gauges as he charged the lines, waiting until Cap had moved away to get the squad's oxygen before he said anything.

"She'll be okay. They'll get her out."

Cara flashed him a worried look and a tentative smile as Cap returned with the oxygen mask, and Mike smiled in return. "With any kitchen fire there's a lot smoke," he said, a bit louder as Cap handed her the mask and turned on the valve. Cara was still watching Mike as she held the oxygen to her face, and he smiled again. Cap nodded to Mike and jogged away, towards the house. Mike kept talking as he made another adjustment. "It's all that grease. Usually looks worse than it is. She should be fine."

It seemed like forever that Mike put his own worry into making sure he did his job right. He juggled levers and dials, watching his gauges, wishing he could think of something more reassuring to say to Cara. But there wasn't much beyond what he'd already said. It all depended on how much smoke Dori'd eaten, and how hard it was to extricate her from beneath that shelf.

Then suddenly Cara dropped the oxygen mask and took off running, heading for where Cap was laying out the paramedics' equipment. Mike glanced over his shoulder. Johnny was jogging across the lawn, Dori draped limply across his shoulders, Roy right behind him. Stanley grabbed Cara and pulled her back from her friend as Johnny gently laid Dori out on the lawn. Mike couldn't hear what Stanley was saying, but he knew the litany well enough. _Stay back, let them do their jobs; they'll take care of her._ Empty words, really, when someone was frantic with worry for a friend or loved one and could do nothing but wait.

Johnny and Roy worked fast, getting the oxygen Cap retrieved for them on Dori, taking her blood pressure and cutting off her clothing to see how badly she was hurt. Stanley pulled a yellow blanket from the squad for them, one hand still out to keep Cara back. After some long moments and an interminable conversation with Rampart, Roy left Johnny starting an IV for Dori and came over to take Cara off Cap's hands. With one eye still on his gauges, Mike breathed a sigh of relief. If Dori was seriously injured, Roy wouldn't have left Johnny to care for her alone.

Again, Mike concentrated on his job, more sirens announcing the arrival of the ambulance. Stanley headed for the house to check on things there. A sudden commotion at the squad caught his eye; Dori had evidently come to and was struggling with Johnny. Roy and Cara both moved over to help. The next time Mike was able to check, things had calmed considerably. Cara sat beside Dori stroking her hair as both paramedics worked over her for the moment.

Then Cap was calling to Mike to shut down the pumps and disconnect the hoses; the fire was out. Mike hated to think about what the final stage of the firefighting effort would do to his friends' kitchen; this was the hardest part of the job, gutting the walls and destroying the home they'd worked to save, hauling all the belongings outside to be certain the fire was truly out. At least the fire had been contained in the addition, and hadn't spread to the rest of the house. Mike spared a glance at the squad. Johnny spoke urgently to Dori, who coughed and pulled at the oxygen mask. Pushing Roy's restraining hand away, she sat up, clutching the blanket over her shredded clothes. Johnny leaned over and said something to his partner. Roy shrugged, and Johnny stood, heading over to the engine.

"How are they?" Mike asked, as soon as the slender paramedic was close enough he didn't have to yell.

Mike's gaze followed Johnny's as he looked over his shoulder at the scene behind him. Holding the blanket and the remains of her shirt with one hand, Dori was shaking her head and pulling the oxygen mask off with her other hand. Roy reached out and pushed the mask back, saying something with a smile. Dori relaxed, and let the oxygen mask remain, but she still shook her head in answer to whatever Roy was saying to her. The ambulance attendants stood mutely in the background.

"The blonde, Cara?" Johnny made the name a question, and Mike nodded. "She's fine. She ate a little smoke, but nothing serious." Johnny and Mike both watched as Cara threw her hands up in the air and shook her head at Roy. Dori pushed the mask off her face and said something, but Cara shook her head again. Confused, Mike looked back to Johnny. The paramedic answered without looking at him. "Dori, she...well, she ate quite a bit of smoke, and that shelf fell on her. She doesn't seem to have any serious injuries, and she probably wasn't unconscious that long 'cause she's oriented times three. But she could have a concussion, and...." Hands on his hips, the paramedic hesitated, opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, before he gave Mike an oblique look. "She's got some nasty bruises. She really should go in to Rampart and be seen by a doctor."

Even more confused, Mike frowned. "The ambulance is here. Can't you just take her in?"

Johnny sighed, and shifted to look Mike full in the face.

"She's refusing medical treatment. Doesn't want to go to the hospital, won't go see her own doctor. She ate enough smoke there's a chance of pulmonary edema, and she really should be under observation tonight for that and...and the probable concussion." Again Johnny seemed to be about to say more, but looked away instead. After a second his gaze shifted back to Mike. "Do you think you could talk her into going in?"

Mike looked past Johnny to where Roy was talking urgently to Dori. Her head down, every line in her body stiff, Dori was the picture of obstinate refusal, until she began coughing. Johnny shook his head as she coughed on. Roy hovered over her, obviously trying to convince Dori to put the oxygen mask over her face. She relented as the coughing continued, and even allowed the paramedic to gently push her back down to the ground. Cara knelt worriedly at her side. She exchanged a few comments with Roy as he pulled the blanket up to Dori's shoulders. He shook his head and said something as he reached for the biophone again. Then Cara stood and stared at Dori, who had finally stopped coughing, before taking off towards the front door of the house.

"I don't know, Johnny. If Cara can't talk her into it, what makes you think I can? It's her choice, isn't it?" He shrugged, absently tracking the leggy blonde's progress across the lawn. But Johnny refused to give up.

"Just give it a try, Mike. She really needs to be seen by a doctor," Johnny insisted. "It may take a while for the effects of the smoke inhalation to catch up to her, but if it does and she's not near help, she could be in serious trouble. She seems oriented right now, but if there's a chance she's not..."

Still watching Cara, now taking the stairs up to the front porch two at a time, Mike shrugged against the weight of the paramedic's concern.

"All right, I'll try. But I doubt it will do any good."

Johnny nodded shortly, and headed back towards the squad. He and Roy exchanged comments quietly, and Roy gave Mike the same funny look he'd just gotten from Johnny. What in the world had those two so spooked? Both paramedics then busied themselves packing up their equipment. Mike sighed, and dropped the hose end he'd been holding.

Chet and Marco came out of the addition as he made his way over to the squad. He knew they were going to exchange their hose for axes, and he was glad Cara was in the house. Maybe he could keep Dori occupied, and neither woman would realize right away what more was going to be done to their beloved kitchen.

Holding the blanket up to her chest, Dori tried to sit up as he stopped and squatted beside her. Out of the corner of his eye, Mike caught Johnny's involuntary motion and put his own hand out to keep her down on the ground. Laying back, Dori shook her head, and reached up to pull the mask off her face. She held up her other hand and he clasped it. Johnny stepped away, carrying his load of equipment to the other side of the squad. Roy still hovered on Dori's other side, just far enough away to be out of her sight, but close enough to keep an eye on her.

"You're all a bunch of overprotective so and so's," Dori mumbled, scowling at Mike. She returned his grin with a matching one of her own, but the effect was marred by the coughing that consumed her. Mike studied her as she fought to catch her breath. There were several dark smudges on her arm, but he couldn't tell if they were bruises or from the fire.

Even with her smoke blackened face and the blood trickling from beneath a bandage on her right temple, Dori Steadman was one of the few people Mike knew who really looked like her name. Nearly a foot shorter than his own six foot, three inches, her shoulder-length black hair accented her gently tanned complexion. Generously proportioned, but not overdone, she'd have been unremarkably pretty except for her eyes. Large and dark, with thick black lashes, they dominated her face. Despite being born in California, the cadences of her Georgia childhood governed her speech, and Mike had learned from Cara to tease Dori about her "southernisms."

"Cara said you were here," Dori said, her voice raspy from the smoke, and Mike winced. Her throat would be raw for several days at least, if he was any judge. She coughed, and then spoke again. "She was quite impressed...seeing you in action." She managed an unrepentant smile as she teased him, and, kneeling beside the biophone on her other side, Roy chuckled. Mike hoped the heat climbing up his face couldn't be seen in the fading light, and he shrugged. Dori coughed again, and he reached over to pull the oxygen mask down over her face, ignoring the fact she rolled her eyes at him.

"You know, despite their funny looks, Johnny and Roy know their stuff. If they say you should go to the hospital, they're serious, Dori. Why don't you let them take you in?" Even beneath the mask Mike could see her jaw clench, and he wasn't surprised when she shook her head at him. His other hand caught hers before she could get the mask off again. "Besides, you'll break Johnny's heart if he doesn't get to ride in the ambulance with you," he whispered conspiratorially. "He's been dying to meet you ever since I took that plate of cinnamon rolls in to the station."

Her eye roll at that comment was even more pronounced than the last one, and Mike grinned. This time he let her pull the oxygen mask up.

"Thank you so much for attempting to coordinate my social life," she managed before she started coughing again. "Didn't you call him 'One-shot Gage?' The man who couldn't get a woman to go out with him twice?" Mike heard Roy stifling more laughter as he packed up equipment, and he had to swallow his own laugh as he nodded in response to Dori's question.

"Oh, my, you are too kind, Mr. Stoker," Dori rasped. "See if I ever feed you again. Of course, Cara would give you anything your little ol' heart desired--should you ever get the nerve up to ask her, that is." Roy quit trying to hide his laughter at that point and Mike shot him a glare to avoid having to find a come back to that last comment. Dori was laughing at him too, in between coughs. He pulled the oxygen mask down over her face.

"I think you inhaled a little too much smoke," he said, and Dori, surprisingly, laid her head back and closed her eyes. But she was still grinning behind the mask.

Cara returned from her errand, a bulky bundle of material in her hands. She stopped beside Mike, smiling broadly at him. Her long blonde hair was coming out of its bun, and Mike found himself staring at the curve of her neck beneath the locks of hair. Where Dori was soot and cinders, with an impish ambiguity, Cara was a clean, smokeless flame. Tall and slim, the hazel-eyed California native had a casual elegance and a naturally calm manner that didn't quite disguise an excellent sense of humor. As intensely capable as her friend, Cara was a natural gas fire, cool and clear and blue next to Dori's smouldering peat on the hearth. Mike had known from the beginning which he preferred.

"Oh, they called in the heavy artillery, did they?" Cara asked, winking at him. Mike felt the heat of another blush creeping up his face, and, letting go of Dori's hand, stood. Maybe his height would hide any unnatural color in his cheeks. Cara shook her head. "Let me guess, she won't listen to you, either?"

"No," he answered, and it was Cara's turn to roll her eyes. She shook out her bundle, a thick, terry-cloth robe.

"God, you are an obstinate creature, aren't you?" Cara said, kneeling beside her friend. Dori shook her head minutely as she pulled the oxygen mask off completely. Roy was there to take it. Toying with the cord and the mask, he looked at Dori, then at Cara and up at Mike.

"I really wish you'd let us--"

"No." Dori shook her head again, holding her arm towards him. Roy sighed, dropping the mask and tubing on the grass. His reluctance obvious, he reached for her arm and quietly disconnected the IV. Stowing that debris, he put a band-aid over the small wound left when the catheter was removed from Dori's arm. Giving Mike a look he couldn't interpret, Roy turned away and picked up the biophone handset.

"Rampart, patient is refusing medical treatment."

Tuning out the rest of Roy's conversation with one of the doctors at Rampart, Mike took a step back. Dori sat up, Cara swinging the robe about her shoulders at the same time. Holding the yellow blanket up with one hand, she helped Dori slide her arms into the robe.

His conversation over, Roy had discretely moved away, packing up the oxygen and shooing off the ambulance attendants. Mike looked over toward the house, watching as Cap and Marco manhandled a large shelf out of the oversized door and added it to the growing pile of charred debris in the driveway. When he turned back, Dori was sitting up, the robe pulled snugly about her. Cara still knelt beside her, gathering the scraps of clothing that Johnny and Roy had scattered as they worked on Dori. Dori coughed again, putting her hand over her mouth. The grayish sputum left on her hand afterwards was obvious, even as she tried to wipe it on her robe. Mike tried again.

"Dori, please--"

"I'm fine." She cut him off, staring at the growing pile of debris on her driveway. "Mike, we are in debt up to our necks, and we have no insurance." Dori swallowed a cough. "The repairs for this will take all my savings and probably our profits for the next few months. I don't need a hospital bill on top of that. If you--"

"Dori--" Cara was standing beside him now, and Mike found himself wishing that he could smell her perfume instead of smoke.

"Cara, I'm fine!" Dori held one hand up, and Mike helped her to her feet. She coughed, staggering against him briefly, before pushing away and standing straight, grabbing the robe and holding it closed at her neck. "I was fixing to tell Mike, if he wants to help, he can give us the name of a reputable contractor who will get this repaired quickly and for a reasonable cost."

"I'm gonna 'fix' you for being such a stubborn fool! I thought blondes were supposed to the be dumb ones." Cara turned and stalked off up the driveway, where pieces of cabinetry were now being tossed out of the kitchen onto the stack of debris. She threw the remains of Dori's clothes on the pile. Cap appeared in the doorway and caught her arm just before she stepped into the building. Mike's attention was drawn away from the ensuing argument by Johnny's appearance at his side. A clip-board in his hand, he dug his lime-green pen from his shirt pocket as he held the board out to Dori.

"If you're still refusing medical treatment, I need you to sign this form."

Mike didn't miss the appraising look Dori gave Johnny as she accepted both pen and clipboard. Then she signed the form and handed it back to him with a smile that bordered on simpering. Johnny answered with his own lop-sided grin as he tore her copy from beneath the official one. Mike groaned. Oh god, it wasn't happening, it wasn't. He wasn't going to watch if it was. Maybe he'd better get up to the house before Chet started making time with Cara. He gave Dori a fraternal pat on one shoulder.

"I'm gonna go rescue Cap from Cara. We'll be out of your hair in a little bit. And I'll come by tomorrow to see how you're doing, all right? I know a good contractor you can call. Retired firefighters, they'll do you right."

Dori nodded her thanks, swallowing another cough, and turned her attention back to Johnny, who was smiling broadly now. Mike headed for relative sanity of the house, where Cara's cries of dismay could be plainly heard over the sound of axes.


	4. Chapter 4

__

_And I'll wager a hatful of guineas_

_Against all of the songs you can sing_

_That someday you'll love, and the next day you'll lose_

_And winter will turn into spring_

_And the snow falls_

_And the wind calls_

_And the wheel turns round again._

_~~John Tams_

The good news, Mike thought as he scrubbed at a particularly persistent spot of mud on the locker room floor, was that after spending his last four days off helping Cara and Jason clean up the mess left by both fire and firefighter, he finally had a date with Cara. The bad news was that it had been simply to give her a ride to the airport last night. Oh well, the two weeks she'd be gone visiting family in Colorado gave him time to figure out just where he could take her on a date. It didn't make sense to take a woman who could cook circles around 95% of the city out for a dinner date--at least, not at the kind of restaurant Mike could afford. He'd have to be a little more creative with his entertainment choices.

The mud finally broke loose and Mike wiped it up. He dunked the mop in the bucket, and then the wringer, leaning on the lever to squeeze the mop out. Cara did drive a sporty 60's Buick Opel. Maybe she'd enjoy going to that new go-cart race-track...

On second thought, maybe he'd just have to bite the bullet and ask Dori for some ideas on where to take Cara. Except Dori wasn't exactly happy with any of them right now. In addition to being worried about Puff's disappearance, she'd been forced by group fiat to sit on the porch for the last few days, taking paper inventory of the salvageable supplies they brought to her. Her persistent cough and hoarseness had left Mike with no doubt that Johnny had been right; she really would have been better off going to the hospital. But he and Cara both had been shot down every time they'd tried to get her to even go to her own doctor. They'd finally given up. "Let her suffer, then," Cara had said, and Dori, uncharacteristically sullen, had simply scowled and stifled another cough as she counted fondue forks.

Dori might have been in a funk, but the normally surly Jason had been surprisingly helpful and pleasant--until light dawned for Mike. Jason wasn't helping Mike, or even Dori. Jason was helping Cara. Dori's brother had a crush on her business partner and best friend. Mike ought to recognize the signs; he was familiar enough with them. It was actually kind of funny, and, if Mike was completely honest with himself, it was what finally pushed him into asking Cara for a date. He wasn't worried about competition from Jason; after all, he had seven years and eight inches on the kid. But still, the thought that a kid like Jason had the guts to do what he did not rankled enough that Mike had finally bitten the bullet and asked her out.

He'd been honestly surprised when Cara had said "yes;" so was a scowling Jason, evidently eavesdropping on the conversation. Fortunately that had been at the end of the day's work, when Cara was getting into her car. Jason's sullen glare had followed Mike all the way home, and Mike had to resist the urge to turn around and gloat to the boy's face.

"Roy, I'm telling you, we're probably just overreacting."

The thump as he opened the door accompanied Johnny's voice into the locker room. Hidden by the two banks of lockers between them, Mike kept mopping. He was just about done. Spying another muddy footprint, he swished the mop over it.

"Don't forget, Johnny, I saw the same thing you did. And I don't think we're overreacting." Roy's voice, low and intense followed the squeak of a locker door opening. Mike pushed the mop over the floor in the far corner of the room. Sounded like Johnny and Roy's last run hadn't been very pleasant.

"Yeah, but..." A bench squeaked, and there was silence for a minute. "Okay, supposing we do say something? What exactly can he do about it? Anything? Anything at all?" There was silence for a moment. In a hurry to finish, Mike swept the mop under a bench. What had C shift done, answered a call at a mud wrestling tournament? Roy evidently didn't have an answer for Johnny, because after a second the dark-haired paramedic's voice continued. "Not much, hunh? Be realistic, Roy. There's just not a whole lot anyone can do in this kind of a situation. What's--"

"But what if we don't say anything and something worse happens? Are you willing to live with that?" Roy's rebuttal came softly, almost inaudible over the swish of the mop and the air conditioning kicking in.

"Roy, I just don't--"

The wringer clanked against the bucket as Mike dropped the mop into it, and the locker room fell silent. Steering both mop and bucket by the mop handle, Mike pushed it out from the back bank of lockers and toward the front of the room. Johnny and Roy were both there when he came out from between the rows. Hands dangling between his knees, Johnny sat on the bench in front of his open locker, and Roy leaned on one shoulder against the next locker over, hands shoved into his pockets. Mike paused for a moment to get a better grip on the mop and move the bucket on out of the room.

"Hey, guys. Tough run?"

He waited for a moment, while Johnny and Roy stared at him, wide-eyed. Then finally, Johnny blinked, and shooting a look at Roy, managed a sick grin for Mike.

"Uh... yeah." Johnny's entire body moved when he nodded, his shoulders bobbing along with his head. "Yeah, yeah. You, ah...you could say that." He laughed nervously, and glanced over at his partner. His gaze sliding away from Mike's, Roy shrugged.

"Yeah...." was all the blonde paramedic offered, ducking his head and looking down at the floor.

"Okay." Both paramedics looked at him then, Roy from up underneath his bangs, and Johnny just sitting there, staring. Mike couldn't resist checking his reflection in the mirror, just to be certain he hadn't been the unwitting victim of one of Chet's Phantom pranks. Nope, no dark circles under his eyes, no green dye on his uniform, no funny milk mustache on his face. Okay, maybe the guys wanted privacy to finish hashing all this out. He could understand that. Besides, he hadn't meant to eavesdrop--this time. He couldn't help it if he was naturally quiet.

Mike took a better grip on the mop, ready to wheel it on out and give Johnny and Roy their privacy. But Johnny shifted, looked at Roy, who shrugged. Johnny turned back to Mike, held out one hand towards him, and took a deep breath. But the tones sounded before he could say anything. Mike shoved the mop and bucket over toward the wall, then followed Johnny and Roy as they scrambled for the door. The dispatcher's voice echoed through the vehicle bay as they exited the locker room.

__

_"Squad 51, woman caught in sewing machine. 1432 Lubbock Lane, 1-4-3-2 Lubbock Lane, cross street Tahoka. Time out, 14:31."_

Mike stopped and bit back a grin as Johnny nearly ran into the engine. Catching himself with one hand, Johnny looked over his shoulder at Mike, his eyebrows nearly up to his hairline.

"Did he say _sewing machine?_"

Smiling, Mike nodded, and Johnny rolled his eyes before running around the engine to the squad. The vehicle doors slammed over Cap's voice acknowledging the call, and someone opened the bay doors for the guys. As the squad rolled out of the station, Cap's phone rang, his footsteps loud on the floor as he ran back into his office to answer it. Mike headed back into the locker room to finish putting away his mop. Whatever Johnny had been about to say would have to wait.

Chores done, Mike headed for the day room. He had a date with the entertainment section of the LA Times and a cup of coffee. Thirty minutes later he hadn't come up with anything interesting, besides the fascinating fact that Steeleye Span was opening for Jethro Tull's concert in two weeks. Maybe Dori would know if Cara's musical tastes would accommodate obscure British folk rock.

"So, you gonna ask Cara to give you cooking lessons?"

Mike glared at Chet when the firefighter's face appeared, grinning suggestively over his newspaper. Marco stood behind Chet, holding two cups of coffee. Mike lowered the paper as Marco offered one cup to Chet.

"Why should I?" he asked, when Chet's gaze returned to him.

Carefully holding his coffee, Chet rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Why? WHY? Mike, man, think!" Mike just glared, and Chet was glad to continue. "May I remind you about last week? It was your turn to cook and you made that...that...what the heck was it called?" Chet lifted his eyebrows and looked forlornly to Marco for help, but the other firefighter just shrugged and drank his coffee.

Mike frowned and folded the paper before dropping it on the couch. Okay, so Dori's recipe for Chicken Parmigiana was more complicated than it looked at first glance. He grabbed his cup up from the floor and stalked over to the range.

"Okay, fine, so for once my cooking didn't turn out--"

"Once? ONCE?" Chet shuddered as he followed Mike across the day room. "Mike, even Gage's record in the kitchen beats yours."

"I don't know, Chet," Marco said from his seat on the couch, where he leafed one-handed through the paper Mike had abandoned. "Hot dogs are pretty low on the food scale. And you gotta admit Mike's never tried to serve those to us."

Chet set his cup down on the counter and focused on Marco. Leaning against the counter next to him, Mike resisted the urge to pick up the nearby salt shaker and pour salt into the coffee.

"Yeah, but what do you call what he tried to feed us last week? That stuff was scary, man! Looked some sort of chemical warfare experiment gone nuts." One hand in his pocket, Chet leaned over to Mike. "You gotta take the chance here while you've got it, Mikey. Get some lessons, learn how to cook some real food. Your public will adore you for it."

Mike slammed his cup on the range top.

"You guys like my spaghetti. And my fried chicken." He leaned over the shorter man, daring him to deny the truth of that statement. Chet nodded agreeably.

"Well, yeah, sure, Mike, sure we do. But..." He waved a finger at Mike's chest for emphasis. "You gotta admit, two years of spaghetti and fried chicken, man, it's getting a little old, ya know?"

Stepping closer to Chet, Mike glared at his friend.

"I don't hear you complaining to Cap about his clam chowder, or how often he makes it."

"Well, duh, Mikey. That's 'cause he's the Cap and you're not. What kind of a fool do you think I am?"

"Do you really want us to answer that?" Marco said from the couch. Mike smirked as Chet grimaced. Chet's exasperation didn't last, and he quickly started in on Mike again.

"Look, Mike, all I'm saying is you've got a golden opportunity here. Why not take advantage of it? When you're the Captain, I promise I won't complain--"

"What's this about Stoker taking my job?"

Stanley stood in the doorway, arms akimbo, his glare taking in both Chet and Mike.

"It wasn't me, Cap." Mike defended himself quickly, grabbing his coffee and throwing his own glare at Chet as he headed back to the couch and his paper.

"Hey, Cap, I was just suggesting that Mikey take the opportunity to get some cooking lessons, while he can." Chet threw both hands out in an attempt to look innocent. Stanley just shook his head and headed for the coffeepot himself. Mike shoved Henry over and settled on the couch after reclaiming the Entertainment section of the newspaper from Marco.

"How're your neighbors doing, Mike?" Stanley asked a few moments later, settling into a chair at the table. He propped his feet in a nearby chair and slouched back, sipping at his coffee as he waited for Mike's answer. Mike dropped the paper he was perusing just enough to meet Stanley's questioning gaze.

"They're doing all right. I think McPherson gave them a break on the cost of the repairs, so they were pretty happy about that. Figure they can be back in business by the end of the month."

"Good, good. That's really good to hear." Cap sighed moodily, and stared at nothing as he lifted his coffee cup again. Chet, settling in at the other end of the table, frowned. Marco dropped the paper he'd been reading, and all three men stared at Stanley. Realizing everyone's eyes were on him, Cap took a deep breath.

"I just heard from Clary. We got an i.d. on our body." There was silence, and Cap shook his head. "Amanda Parsons. She was a known prostitute, worked that area regularly. Her...roommate reported her missing a couple of days ago; they identified her as the victim from our arson by dental records and the remains of the tattoo on her back."

None of the other men in the room said anything. Stanley let the silence settle, then cleared his throat.

"Anyway, they think she just happened to pick up the wrong...client, and the arson was to cover up the fact that things...things got out of hand."

"But those were Molotov's, Cap. You don't just keep those handy for occasional use." Chet wasn't the brightest bulb in the fixture, but even he had a good idea now and then.

"I know, and I asked Clary about that, but he didn't seem to think it was an issue."

"So, he's gonna stop looking for an arsonist, and start looking for a pervert. And we're left at the mercy of a firebug out there burning buildings up."

"Yeah, well, C shift had another suspicious fire, the fire marshall is over there now checking it out. An abandoned house, over on Dunedin Road."

"But no body this time," Marco said, staring at the paper, slack in his hand.

"No, pal, no body this time." Stanley's voice was soft, and there really wasn't much for anyone to say after that.

* * *

Sometimes the slow shifts were harder to deal with than the busy ones. Marco had been somber the entire shift, and whatever was bugging the paramedics had left Johnny short-tempered and Roy uncharacteristically sullen. Chet had refused to let the cooking lesson thing drop, and by the time bedtime rolled around Mike had been about ready to deck him to make him shut up. All in all, not one of A shift's better days. They were toned out at 1 a.m. on a nasty MVA where three out of four victims were Code F at the scene and the fourth not expected to make it. At 5 a.m. it was a structure fire that kept them busy until well after 7 a.m. They returned to the station minutes before B shift arrived.

And it wasn't even over for Mike at the end of his regular shift. He'd volunteered to cover part of B shift for their engineer, Roger Daniels. Poor man had to be in divorce court this morning; his wife was tired of being married to the fire department. Ten hours after the shift change, after three "unknown" rescues, two dumpster fires and an MVA, Mike arrived home. He kicked the front door shut behind him and dropped his keys on the coffee table. Forget supper, he needed a nap. Mike flopped on his couch and closed his eyes.

Three hours later he sat straight up, his heart pounding. For a moment he was disoriented in the semi-darkness of the room, but another series of frantic knocks got his feet to the floor. Taking a deep breath and rubbing one hand over his face, he stood. He checked his watch as he stepped over the coffee table on his way to the door. Damn, it was nearly nine o'clock! He hadn't intended to sleep that long, hadn't intended to do more than catnap for a few minutes before finding some supper--not to mention he was supposed to be meeting the guys at the bowling alley right this minute.

Mike turned on the lamp by the door before hitting the switch for the porch light. Through the sheer curtains over the front door's window, he could vaguely make out Dori, her arms wrapped around her as she leaned forward, peering into the house. The heavy wooden door opened with a creak, and Mike pushed the screen door out and held it for her. But Dori didn't come in, she just stared at him. For a second he thought she had a black eye, but then she moved. The shadows flowed across her face, and he saw that it was just her mascara, smeared under her eyes. Taking half a step outside, Mike looked closer. Her hair was a mess, the sleeveless shirt and jeans she wore looked like she'd been rolling in the dirt. Then he noticed the puffy eyes, red nose, make-up streaked across her face...

"Dori? What's wrong?" Pushing the door open further, he gestured for her to come in, but she backed off, shaking her head. She looked away, over at her house, and then at him, opening her mouth as if to say something. Instead she coughed, swaying slightly, and stumbled as Mike stepped out onto the porch. He reached for her arm, but, hunching her shoulders, she avoided his grasp and stared somberly up at him.

"I...I need your help, Mike."

More than the scent of Mrs. Caraveggio's roses came wafting toward him at that, and Mike frowned. Dori hadn't been his neighbor that long, but he'd seen enough of her to know she never seemed like the type to drink much. But here she was, wobbling all over his porch and obviously soused.

Dori hiccupped, swayed again. Mike stepped closer, afraid she was going to take a header down the porch steps, but she steadied herself. Staring up at him, she sniffed, then coughed.

"It--it's Puff... I can't...I can't move him, and I thought you might be able to help me..." One hand went up to her head for a moment, and she blinked, looking away, obviously fighting tears. Tears ran down her face anyway, further streaking her mascara. "I...I'm sorry to bother you, but I didn't want to leave him lying there all night..."

More than a little concerned, Mike reached for her arm again, but she swayed slightly, just enough to stay out of his reach. He couldn't tell if she was doing it on purpose or not, but he let his hand fall. No sense pushing things and _causing_ her to fall.

"Puff came back?" he asked, studying her.

Dori shook her head, frowning slightly through her tears. She wiped one hand across her face and then against her nose, but it didn't do much good.

"He, he...he wasn't ever really gone," she said, wiping her hand on her jeans now, but before Mike could ask her what in the world that meant, his phone rang.

"Dori, come on in for a minute, okay?" She hesitated, and Mike reached out to take her elbow, this time making contact. She flinched, but didn't resist as he pulled her into the house, steadying her when she tripped over the doorstep. The phone shrilled again as he carefully guided her to the armchair by the front window. "Just wait here while I answer the phone, and then I'll help you with Puff. Okay?"

Staring blankly at him, Dori nodded once, and then pulled her arms in tight to her body as she sank slowly into the chair. She didn't relax into it; instead she perched on the edge of the seat, hands clenched as she rocked slightly. Her eyes not quite meeting his, she focused on a spot somewhere over his shoulder. With a final concerned glance at her, Mike turned and headed for the phone, grabbing it on its eighth or ninth ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Mike, did you forget the league tonight?" Johnny's voice floated from the receiver. Mike turned to keep an eye on Dori. She seemed to have retreated into her own little world for the moment. After a second he realized Johnny was still waiting for an answer. The yells and cries of the bowlers in the alley floated from the phone.

"Mike?"

"No, I didn't forget; I fell asleep after I got home and just woke up."

"Oh. Well, there's still time for you to make it. We're just now warming up; the early league ran late."

Still watching Dori, swaying minutely back and forth in the chair as if caught in some invisible eddy, Mike frowned.

"Uh, Johnny...I don't think I'm gonna be able to make it tonight."

"What do you mean, you can't make it tonight? You know we can't get a substitute this late! Just come on over; it doesn't matter if you didn't get a shower or anything," Johnny cajoled. "You'll still smell better than ol' Chester B. on a good day."

"Look, Johnny, I'm sorry, but I can't. Something's come up, okay?"

"Oh, yeah? What's her name?"

Mike sighed, turning away for the moment from Dori's distress, focusing instead on the calendar of Classic Fin Cars hanging above his telephone.

"Johnny, look, I said I'm sorry. I don't have time to explain right now. I need to go. I'll be there later if I can."

Johnny's protest was cut off in mid-sentence as Mike dropped the phone back into its cradle. He stared uncertainly at the 1957 Bel Air gleaming above April's calendar, before he turned back to Dori. Nothing had changed, and his confusion mounted. She sat bobbing to whatever internal unrest held her, staring off into the distance, appearing like anything but the capable young professional woman he'd come to know over the last few months. What in the world could have happened to Puff to cause this sort of a reaction in her?

She didn't seem to see him until he crossed the room and sat on the coffee table in front of her. Then she started and her eyes grew huge as she flinched away from him.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. It's just me." He immediately dropped the hand he'd half lifted to her shoulder.

It took her a second, but she focused on him, and then favored him with what should have been a bright smile but was instead a ghastly grimace beneath the streaked make-up. For a minute, Mike had the unsettling thought that it wasn't Dori sitting there at all; rather it was some little girl, some very lost little girl, playing with her mother's make-up. Unsettled, he shook that image away, helped by the fact that she hiccupped and burped just then. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth and she mumbled "Sorry" as she looked away. Instinctively, Mike pulled back from the scent of...bourbon. That's what it was. His step-father had allowed the stuff in the house for holidays, and that was it. Mike had been more than a little clueless about adult beverages until he went to college. He'd learned more then he really wanted to know about them since he joined the fire department. But that particular smell was one he would never forget.

Tilting her head to one side, Dori was staring up at him now.

"Mike, Mike, Fireman Mike," she chanted, smiling at him. "Cara, she likes you, you know? She likes you a lot. Better than she likes Jason." Dori giggled. Mike grinned, and shook his head, hoping she wouldn't notice his blush. Then again, in her inebriated state, she probably wasn't noticing much at all.

"Yeah, well, tell you what, why don't we skip this part of the conversation?"

Dori nodded agreeably and smiled. Okay, now what? Should he get her to take him to Puff, or should he just take her home? Dori took care of that dilemma, shivering suddenly and turning away from him. For the first time Mike noticed the series of bruises on her upper arm. Livid against her pale skin, the long, dark contusions looked almost like claw marks.

"Is that from the fire?"

She didn't even look, just nodded, covering the bruises with her hand.

"There was a lot of stuff on the shelf when it fell on me," she said, tonelessly. Mike frowned. What had Johnny said at the scene, that she had a lot of nasty bruises? Maybe he and Cara should have pushed her harder about going to the hospital after all.

He stared at Dori while she rubbed absently at her arm. After a few seconds Dori looked up at him, and the haunted little girl was back in her eyes. "Will...will you help me with Puff?" she whispered.

Mike nodded, and couldn't stop the thought that his capable neighbor looked like she need help with a whole lot more than Puff at this moment.

"Yeah. Of course I will." Standing, he held out a hand to help her up, but she pushed herself to her feet using the arms of the chair instead. Okay, Mike could take a hint. He didn't try to assist her again, merely held the door open for her as they left the house.

Neither one said anything as they made their way across the street. Mike had to keep pulling his hand back every time she stumbled. But somehow Dori never fell, even when she tripped over the lines in her cement driveway. Wavering slightly, she led him around the side of her house and into the backyard. They walked all the way across the grassy expanse, and then were into the rough grass and gnarled apple trees at the back of her lot, remnants of an old orchard that stood between Dori's house and the ruined barn. Literally tripping through the trees, she somehow made it through the orchard without a major collision. Then she led him down the dirt road that ran along beside the poplars and out to the deserted barn, glinting silver in the moonlight. They'd gone about thirty feet down the road when she stopped.

A flashlight lay on the ground in front of them, its dim light trailing across a strange, dark shape and faintly illuminating the green alfalfa in the field beyond it. It was a moment before Mike realized the misshapen mass was Puff, lying motionless on the ground. Dori hung back, sniffling, as he knelt beside the dog, his hands out to verify what he already knew in his heart.

Puff was sprawled half on, half off a khaki tarp and there was no mistaking the huge dog was dead. Had been dead for a couple of days, if Mike was any judge. Mike gently smoothed the black fur, noting how dirty and matted it was. Even in the open air of the field, the dog reeked of feces and urine. The body felt strange, after a moment Mike realized it was because he could feel the bones through the fur. In the yellowed beam of the flashlight he couldn't make out why exactly the dog had died. Mike hung his head, his hands clenched in the loose fur. However it had happened, the poor dog had died alone and in misery. He'd miss the big dumb mutt, he really would.

Given the dog's position on the tarp, it looked like Dori had been attempting to drag him back to her house, but from where? And how had Puff been missed, if he was out here in the field? Dori had been turning the entire neighborhood upside down looking for him the last week, and Mike knew he'd seen her back on this road at least once. Cara had forcibly removed her back to the porch that time, but he was sure it wasn't the only time she'd been back here, searching.

He turned to look at his neighbor. Light from the many streetlights beyond them and from the flashlight glinted off the tears on her face.

"I'm sorry, Dori." There was no reaction to his apology; Dori simply stared down at her dog. Mike turned back, laying his hand on Puff's head. "Where did you find him?"

"He, he was a, a graduation present...from, from my brother."

Okay, that wasn't quite what he had in mind, but at this point it probably didn't matter where Puff had been. Catching his glance, Dori licked her lips and tried to smile, but that failed, miserably. She bit her lip instead, an obvious attempt to stifle more sobs. Wrapping her arms tightly about her, she shivered in the temperate night air.

"From Jason?" Mike couldn't help the skepticism, but either Dori didn't notice, or she didn't care. She shook her head, and then staggered, just a bit. One hand went out to help her, but she didn't need it. She stepped aside, staring at Puff all the while.

"No...no. Sandy, my older brother. He always wor--...he wanted...he tried to get me to stay in Sacramento...but I wou-- And now Puff's dead."

Mike frowned. Dori wasn't making any sense whatsoever, even if she did appear slightly more sober than she had fifteen minutes ago. He stood, and they both stared at Puff for a moment or two.

"What do you want to do with him?"

Dori flinched, and looked away, out over the field of fragrant hay.

"The...the burn pile?" She waved a hand towards the pile of debris they'd stacked on the back edge of her property.

"He would smell," Mike said, without thinking, and then swore softly to himself when Dori gasped. Turning, he found her staring up at him, tears welling again in her eyes.

"Look, Dori, I'm sorry, I..." There wasn't anything he could say, so instead he reached out to pat her shoulder. He missed as Dori stepped up and knelt beside Puff. She ran her fingers over the dog's face.

"There...there's a shovel. I...I can dig a grave for him, but I...I need help getting him home."

Digging a grave for a dog in the middle of the night? She was a bit pickled here. Mike shook his head. Hands on his knees, he bent over beside her, willing her to look at him.

"Dori, I can dig the grave for you tomorrow. We can put him in your garage tonight, and I'll take care of it first thing in the morning, I promise. Right now why don't you let me walk you back up to the house?"

She was already shaking her head before he got to the part about walking her up to the house.

"NO! It's got to be done tonight, before... before..." Whatever she was going to say was lost in the coughs that suddenly shook her.

"Before what?" Mike asked gently, kneeling beside her now, one hand on her back. She shrugged his hand off and lurched to her feet, taking several steps away before turning back to him. Her teeth glimmered in the faint light, as if she was smiling--or grimacing. Mike couldn't be sure.

"That's...that's okay, Mike. I shouldn't have, shouldn't have bothered you. Thanks for coming."

"Dori, I'll help you get him back up to the house. But we can't dig a grave for him tonight. I'm off tomorrow, and I promise, I'll help you take care of it first thing in the morning, okay?"

Even in the near darkness he could tell she didn't like that solution, at all. But she didn't say anything, just stared down at the ground. Then she looked up at him.

"Your house?"

"What?" He stood this time, but didn't try to approach her.

"Can...." Dori hesitated, then swallowed. "Can we carry him over to your house? He'll be safe there, and I won't have to worry, and then tomorrow would be okay for digging the grave." The words came out in a rush, as though she was afraid he'd reject the idea outright.

Mike stared at Dori, and then down at the dog. Rubbing her hands over her arms, Dori waited patiently for his response.

"Okay, yeah. We can do that," Mike said, not even sure at this point what he was agreeing to.

She nodded, and he thought she smiled at him. Shaking his head, Mike stepped over and squatted down to shift the dog all the way onto the tarp, pulling one edge up and over Puff. Something slid out with a thud when he yanked on the other side of the tarp. Reaching for whatever it was, his hand encountered smooth glass. He stood, brushing dirt off a square bottle. He didn't have to take the lid off to smell the contents. There was a motion by his side, and Dori slipped the bottle from his hands.

Mike turned to stare at her as she took several steps back, away from him, cradling the bottle in one arm. Where in the world had his nice, normal neighbor gone too? It wasn't even a full moon tonight. Staring over his shoulder again, Dori simply clutched the bottle tightly and said nothing. With a shrug, he returned to his task. Pulling the rest of the tarp around the dog, he bent over and lifted him carefully. The burden wasn't nearly as heavy as he remembered Puff being, and Mike let the wave of sadness for the animal wash over him. Hell of a way for a beloved pet to die.

_He wasn't ever really gone..._ Dori's voice drifted across his memory, and Mike frowned. What in the world did she mean by that? He wasn't sure, and at this point, he wasn't sure he even really wanted to know. Right now bowling with the guys was sounding better and better.

"You want to get the flashlight?" he asked.

Bourbon still safe in the crook of one arm, Dori tripped over a dirt clod as she headed for the flashlight. Mike didn't have a hand free to catch her when she tumbled into the dirt, but when her first reaction was to check for the bourbon bottle beneath her, he decided he wasn't feeling quite as charitable as he had earlier. Bottle in one hand, Dori scrambled over to the flashlight. Standing, she ignored the dirt and dried plant stalks dangling from her clothing, and reached for the light. This time she made it without falling down.

The light wobbled with her unsteady steps as she led the way back. Mike hefted Puff's body again in his arms, and followed her. In silence they made their way back down the road, through Dori's yard, and across the street to his house. Mike gently laid the dog on the driveway when they got to his garage.

"Hang on, I'll get the key."

Dori didn't say anything, just stood there, staring down at her dog. Five minutes later Puff's body was resting inside Mike's garage, and he was locking up the door. Dori, still standing where she'd stopped when they first got there, watched in silence.

"He was a good dog," she said, finally, when Mike turned around to face her. "A very good dog." She hefted the bourbon, not really looking at him.

"Yeah." There was silence for a moment. Dori stared up at the stars for a minute, and met his gaze as he stared at her. The light from the back porch cast huge shadows across her face, making her look as if she had no eyes, just great hollows in her face where the eyes should be. She staggered slightly, and coughed.

"Thank you, Mike," she pronounced carefully. The liquor gurgled as she gestured towards the garage with it, and she stared down at the bottle in her hand, stupidly. "He...he was always safer with you."

"Dori...why don't you let me walk you home? You--"

"No. No, I'm fine, Mike. I wouldn't want to get you in--" She hiccupped, and then finished, "in trouble. Thank you."

"Dori--"

She covered the ground between them with surprising agility, not stumbling once. Now she was standing right in front of him, leaning into him. Instinctively, Mike took one step back, and she almost tipped over as she leaned further over towards him. The flashlight fell to the ground as she staggered, and his arms came out automatically to catch her. Mike held her awkwardly as Dori leaned full length against him. Resting her head against his shoulder, she hummed contentedly, tapping the whiskey bottle against his leg.

"Dori..."

"You're a really nice guy, Fireman Mike. Really nice." Her hand traced circles on his shirt as she smiled beatifically up at him, the mascara bruises even larger in the light coming over Mike's shoulder. He shifted, trying unobtrusively to set her on her feet, but she remained limp against him. Then she reached up and cupped his face in her hand.

"Dori, I don't think---"

"Real nice, Fireman Mike. Real nice." She stroked his jaw and Mike bit back a groan. Just what he needed, a drunk Dori making a pass at him.

"Dori--"

But before he could fully voice his objections, her feet moved, and she pushed away from him, standing up straight. She lifted the bottle in a salute.

"I hope you have a nice life, Fireman Mike," she said, clearly. "You and Cara, both."

She patted his chest once, and turned away. Placing her feet carefully, she made her way down his driveway, wobbling into his truck once, and then managing a fairly straight bee line towards her house. Mike stared after her, watching as she crossed the street without looking, and then finally made it all the way up onto her porch. She stopped there, and Mike came forward, down the driveway until he figured out she was simply taking a drink from the bottle in her hand, a very long drink. He frowned. What in the world...?

At last the door banged shut behind Dori, and Mike shook his head. He headed back inside his own house. It wasn't too late to catch up with the guys at the bowling alley. Back door locked, he grabbed his keys and went out again, locking the front door behind him. Getting in his truck and starting his engine, he stared at the reflection of Dori's place in the rearview mirror. The lights went out there as he shifted into the reverse, and backed out into the street. As he headed down the road, he passed Jason and Surfer Bob, dune buggy roaring towards Dori's house. He shook his head.

Damn, but he was sure glad it was Cara he had a date with in two weeks, and not Dori.


	5. Chapter 5

__

_I search my soul_

_my heart and in my mind_

_to try and find forgiveness_

_this is someone's child_

_with pain unreconciled_

_~~Melissa Etheridge_

It was nearly noon the next day before Mike got across the street, having his own hangover to deal with this morning. He'd arrived at the bowling alley last night in the middle of the second game, sidestepping his friends' jeers and assumptions about why he'd been late as quietly as he could. With his arrival, the guys had wrangled a date from four pretty girls bowling on a nearby lane, so afterwards they'd all wound up at a nearby bar.

Maybe it was just because he was trying to push Dori's unsettling behavior out of his mind, and maybe it was in honor of a good dog's death, but Mike had gone ahead and indulged in more beer than he usually did--enough that his friends had confiscated his keys when he tried to leave just after one a.m. Forced to wait until someone else was ready to leave, Mike had sulked in the booth until two of the girls had offered to take him home; his or theirs he wasn't quite sober enough to figure out. But Johnny had taken pity on him, dropping him off at his house, seeing him in the door and promising to return today to take Mike to retrieve his truck. Mike had slept until well after 10 this morning. He'd reeked of cigarette smoke when he woke--not to mention the brewery taste in his mouth to match the Clydesdales galloping in his head.

Now, an hour later, clean, fed, and feeling somewhat human, he stood on Dori's front porch and waited for some sign of life inside the house. The day was bright and sunny; only a few high level stratus clouds between the sun and the city below. Not much haze hanging over the hills, not yet. There'd be more, though, and soon, as spring rapidly swelled into summer and the heat and haze settled in for the duration. Mike was just beginning to think that a trip to the beach with his own dune buggy sounded like a much better way to spend his afternoon, when the curtain on the door's window twitched.

It was a bit too much like the Munsters when the door slowly creaked open, with no discernable movement in the shadowy interior of the house. Mike bit back a grin. Seconds later, Jason materialized from the darkness behind the ancient, wooden frame screen. One arm up on the wall above the door, the other draped over the door itself, Jason leaned there and stared at Mike. His Madras plaid shirt hung open, revealing more of his scrawny chest than Mike would ever be interested in.

"What do you want, fireboy?" Jason sneered at last, scowling through the screen at Mike.

Hmm...apparently Jason was more than a bit jealous that Cara was going out with Mike instead of him. Mike smiled just slightly. He knew how to get under the skin of snots like this, knew just how much of his amusement at Jason's attitude he should allow to show.

"Is Dori here?" Mike asked, allowing his smile to grow, and when Jason's scowl deepened, he added, mildly, "She's expecting me."

Unmoving, his pale eyes narrowed, Jason stared at him.

"Yeah, what's she expecting you for, fireboy? She got a fire you're gonna put out?" Jason's tone was lewd and his sudden grin ludicrous, transforming his boyish good looks into something far older and far dirtier. Unsure what to say or do, Mike waited a second, and when Jason made no move to open the door, he opened his mouth. But before he could say anything, there was movement behind Jason. Dori appeared at Jason's shoulder, pulling her white robe around her.

"It's not your matter, Jason," she said, nervously tugging at her belt. "Mike's helping me with...some yard work. I set it up with him last night after you and Warren left."

Yard work? Mike tried to hide his surprise at Dori's dissembling as Jason continued to stare at him. Dori fiddled with the ties on her robe, and for a second nobody moved.

"I set your breakfast on the table. It’s getting cold," Dori finally said, as Jason stepped back. Shoving the screen door open with one hand, he almost hit Mike in the face with it.

"Well then, come on in, fireboy." Jason smiled again at Mike. At least, Mike thought it was supposed to be a smile, but the emotion lurking behind the movement of Jason's facial muscles wasn't pleasant at all. Neither was the light in his eyes as he held the door, gesturing expansively for Mike to enter. At his back, Dori made a small motion with her hands, almost as if she rather Mike didn't. But as Jason waved again, Dori stepped away too.

"There's coffee and cinnamon rolls," she said. Her smile, while not completely welcoming, was definitely more wholesome than the smirk lingering on Jason's face as he waited for Mike to enter.

"Thanks, Dori, but I'm not really hungry," Mike said, stepping inside the house. He caught the screen door before it could slam behind him. His stomach was still a little queasy, not quite sure about the coffee and toast he'd eaten just half an hour before. Jason shoved by in front of him, heading across the room for his breakfast, Mike supposed. Standing in the small linoleum entryway that took up this corner of the living room, Mike took a closer look at his friend. Not surprisingly, Dori looked a little green around the gills herself.

"How're you feeling this morning?" he asked quietly, ignoring Jason as he slammed something down on the dining table in the far corner.

Dori shrugged, her eyes flicking over toward Jason, now shoveling something vaguely resembling eggs into his mouth. Looking up at Mike, she spoke so low he had to lean forward to hear her.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose."

The shy smile she offered with that comment was more than half apology, and Mike smiled in return.

"Yeah, well, I've had the same sort of encounter with bourbon myself. You're standing this morning, so you're a better man than I am," he offered, and Dori grinned. Mike's own smile grew. It was a relief to find his neighbor again, rather than the strange shade who had stood in for her last night.

Taking a deep breath, Dori waved her hand over toward the table in the corner. Jason was still eating, but obviously paying more attention to their conversation than his breakfast.

"There's plenty, help yourself. Coffee mugs're in the kitchen; you remember where?"

Mike nodded. He'd been in Dori's house enough times to know his way around a little bit. But more coffee really wasn't what his sour stomach wanted right now.

"Thanks, Dori, but no thanks."

“Okay, then, have a seat.” She brushed the back of the couch with one hand. “ I'll just go get dressed." With another shaky smile, Dori looked over her shoulder at Jason, then headed for the stairs behind her.

Mike headed around the bright yellow couch and took a seat on one end. Ignoring Jason, he stared at the carpet. Gray wool with yellow and red flowers, it must have been the original carpet for the house. They sure didn’t make anything like it anymore. Good thing, since it was the kind of ugly that would never die. Settling back against the plump cushions, he put his elbow up on the arm of the couch, and the short lamp on the end table clattered over. He caught the lamp before it hit the floor, but something else thumped softly on the ancient rug. Leaning forward, he spied a small silver frame, face down on the floor. He reached for it without getting up, and found himself holding a family picture.

Obviously several years old, the family’s smiles appeared frozen by more than the camera they faced. Dori was seated on the ground in front of the grouping, her resemblance to her mother unmistakable. From the black hair framing their faces to their softly round figures, the two women were obviously cut from the same mold. However much Dori and her mom looked like each other, Jason was even more a carbon copy of the man in the photo, from the short brown hair to their equally tightly clenched jaws. Standing at the back of the grouping, slim and barely head and shoulders taller than his seated parents, Jason hadn’t grown much in the intervening years. Mike could easily tell that their father was not just taller, but bigger, more heavily muscled.

"What are you staring at?" the current model of Jason snarled, his face twisted into a deep scowl when Mike looked over at him.

"Nice picture," Mike said, setting the frame carefully on the small table beneath the lamp. "You and Dori look even less alike than me and my sister."

Jason snorted and then barked out an ugly laugh.

"She's not my real sister," he growled, reaching for another cinnamon roll. "Just ‘cause her momma married my dad doesn't make us family." Jason stared at Mike, obviously daring him to make something of the comment.

Dori's entrance saved Mike, but whether it was from having to reply to Jason's announcement, or walking across the room to deck the jerk, Mike wasn’t sure. Just as well, the family politics here were a bit out of his depth. Sure, he’d been upset when his own mother remarried three years after his father’s death, but Mike and his step-father had gotten along all right--eventually, after the bourbon incident. But there hadn’t been any step-siblings for Mike and his sister to deal with. He’d been fifteen before his half-brother was born, and seventeen before little Janelle came along. Not much opportunity for sibling rivalry there. He turned away from Jason, and looked at Dori, standing at the other end of the couch.

Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved Dodger's jersey, Dori was still paler than normal, but at least the dark circles under her eyes weren't from mascara. She smiled at Mike as she ran the brush through her hair, and he was once again relieved that things were almost back to normal.

"There's rolls and coffee, Mike. Seriously, won’t you let me fix you something? You did have breakfast, didn’t you?”

Mike didn’t bother to mention that it was almost lunchtime. Everybody was getting off to a late start today. Propping one knee on the couch while she brushed her hair, Dori was spoke around the hair clip she held in her mouth.

“I’ve still got fixin’s for omelettes; another one’s no trouble.” Finished fastening her hair into a pony tail, she pushed a stray lock of hair back as she spoke, and for the first time Mike noticed the large white bandage on her right hand.

"What did you do?" he asked, standing and pointing at her hand. Dori stared down at her hand as if surprised to find the bandage there. There was a clatter as a fork hit the table behind him.

"Yeah, Dor-ee," Jason sneered her name, "what'd ya do this time, ya klutz?"

Dori offered a weak smile, and shrugged one shoulder.

"I grabbed the skillet without a pot holder this morning." She looked up at Mike, and shook her head. "It was my fault, I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing."

Jason snickered as tires squealed nearby. A horn sounded, and Jason stood, a nearly empty glass in one hand. He stared at Dori and Mike, still smirking.

"Dori's clumsy that way, fireboy. Always has been, haven't you, Dori?" He kept an eye on them even as he drained his glass, and Mike, catching Dori's blush, opened his mouth. Someone evidently neglected to teach Jason any manners. Dori beat him to the punch as the horn honked imperatively.

"Warren's waiting for you, Jason," was all she said, not looking at either man. Jason, still leering, grabbed another cinnamon roll and headed across the room. He veered over to Dori, and leaned in towards her, watching Mike over his shoulder as he did so.

"I'm not the only one he's waiting for," he stage-whispered lewdly, reaching up to run his hand along Dori's jaw in an absurd parody of a caress. Dori jerked her head back and Mike took half a step forward, his fists clenching. He’d had about enough of the kid and his attitude this morning.

At Mike’s movement, Jason stepped back, laughing at them both, and then pushed behind Dori to vault over the couch. Stuffing half the roll in his mouth, he grinned again, and for a moment the boyish face that had mooned over Cara a couple of days ago reappeared. Then he winked suggestively at Mike, and waved at Dori.

"Have fun with her while you can, fireboy!"

And Jason disappeared out the door, slamming it shut behind him. There was a loud roar from the dune buggy outside, and more squealing tires.

Staring at the closed door, Mike couldn’t decide if he wanted to deck Jason, or turn him over his knee and spank his bottom. Maybe both.

Dori was at the table gathering dishes when he turned around. Her head ducked low, she was shaking, and Mike arrived just as the glass she was attempting to stack on Jason's empty plate fell. He bent over and grabbed it out from under the chair it rolled beneath and then gently took the plate from Dori's hands.

"Here, let me get that for you."

Dori acquiesced, and without speaking she headed for the kitchen. Mike gathered the rest of the dishes before following her. The sight of the lone cinnamon roll on the plate that had obviously held more brought a grin to Mike’s face. Unfortunately, they seemed to have more to fight over here than just pastries. Half an omelette was drying out on another plate, and the clear glass pitcher held what had to be fresh-squeezed orange juice. Mike shook his head as he gathered everything but the plate with the cinnamon roll and the juice into a neat pile. Jason might not want to claim Dori as his sister, but he sure took full advantage of living here with her.

Stepping through the entranceway of the kitchen, Mike set his burden down on the tiled counter by the sink, and shifted the wooden-handled skillet already there to make room for the new dishes. Dori was at the other end of the narrow kitchen, behind the short bar that divided the breakfast nook there from the rest of the room. Standing on a chair, she was half hidden by the hanging cabinet she was rummaging through. From the sounds of it, she wasn’t having much luck finding what she wanted. Mike was about to offer to help when a box of Alka-Seltzer landed on the counter.

Ah, okay. Mike returned to the dining room for the rest of the food, and a few seconds later he set the orange juice in the refrigerator and the plate with its lone cinnamon roll down on the short bar. Dori stood on the other side, fumbling with the Alka-Seltzer box. As Mike watched, the box shot out of her hands and skittered across the counter, then plopped down to the floor at his feet.

"Dammit!"

Mike had already retrieved the box by the time she got around the bar. She wouldn't meet his gaze as she took it from him, her hand shaking and, a quick glance confirmed, she was crying. Nearly dropping the box again, Dori couldn't seem to get it open, and Mike took it back from her. Wordlessly he opened the box, and removed one of the foil packets, holding it out. Not meeting his gaze, Dori smiled slightly as she took the package and then stepped around him to the sink. Filling a glass, she managed to open the packet and drop the tablets in. Her back to him, Dori stared at the fizzing liquid in her glass. One hand in the front pocket of his jeans, Mike leaned against the other on the counter and stared at Dori. Wasn't it less than ten minutes ago he'd been grateful for the return of his "normal" neighbor? Dealing with crying women was never Mike's strong suit, and especially when he was as confused about what was going on here as he was now. Finally, he took a deep breath.

"Dori?"

Dori tensed, and hastily wiped a hand over her face. Not looking at him, she picked up the glass and swirled the liquid gently.

"I'm sorry, Mike. I'm just tired, and then there's Puff, and sometimes Jason..." She hesitated, gazing out the window over the kitchen sink. "Sometimes Jason can be a little hard to live with."

Sometimes? A little hard to live with?

"Yeah, so I noticed." That got him a glance and a bit of a smile, and then Dori stared down again at her drink. Mike rolled his next words over a few times; he really didn't want to upset Dori, but then again... "Someone needs to sign him up for Woodshed 101 and teach him some manners." He smiled as he said it, and after a second of shocked speechlessness, Dori actually giggled.

"Oh, that would never do." She took a drink of the Alka-seltzer, made a face and then downed the rest of the drink. Mike contemplated asking for his own glass of the stuff; it couldn't hurt. Dori set the glass carefully at the edge of the sink. "Jason...He was so sick when he was little; he nearly died several times. When he got older Max wouldn't allow anyone to touch him. Max...Max would be--discipline him sometimes, but they were always afraid he'd get sick again so they pretty much just let him do as he pleased." Mike couldn't tell if it was a laugh or a sob she choked back at that point, but when Dori turned to him, her smile was soft, and her eyes clear. "I guess he is a little spoiled."

A little spoiled? Mike shook his head, and for once in his life, spoke without thinking.

"Why do you put up with him?"

Dori froze, staring not out the window, but evidently into her own thoughts. Then shaking herself, she reached for the plates, sliding them carefully out from under the silverware and setting the glass he’d left on top of the stack aside.

"I owe Max some money." At Mike's confused look, Dori lifted one shoulder and gave him a half smile. "Jason's dad. I borrowed some from him for college tuition, and then again for the commercial kitchen." She waved a hand in the general direction of the addition. "It was cheaper than a bank. And then a month or so ago, Max said...Max said if I would put Jason up for six months, he'd write off the debt. Things are tight enough here trying to get the business going, I figured it was worth it. Besides..." Dori watched the suds for a minute, balancing the plates on the edge of the counter. "Besides," she repeated, "Jason needed a place to stay for a while. And whatever else he does, Jason’s family." Settling the plates carefully in the sink, she glanced up at him, and smiled. “You take care of family, Mike. Doesn’t matter if it’s hard or easy, you have to do right by ‘em. ‘Cause they’re family.”

Family? Mike opened his mouth, but he never found out if he’d have the guts to tell Dori what Jason thought of her and the idea of family. Instead, Dori crossed the kitchen with a few hurried steps, reaching for the plate behind him, with its lonely cinnamon roll.

"Here, Mike, do a girl a favor and eat this last cinnamon roll. Please." Dori held the plate out to him, her eyes brimming again with unshed tears. Mike held her gaze with his own for a few seconds. The quiet plea wasn't just for him to take the roll; Dori, not surprisingly, didn't want to discuss this any further. Okay. He’d already crossed more lines than he really had the right to in this conversation. Mike gave her a small smile, and took the roll from the plate. She returned to the sink, adding the plate to the ones already there and turning on the water.

Dori squirted some dish soap into the sink, then slowly added silverware and glasses to the rising water while Mike ate the roll. His stomach gurgled happily and finally gave up being queasy as he finished. Mike blushed, but decided the smile his gastric noises brought to Dori’s face was worth it. She waited while he washed his hands in the hot, sudsy water in the sink.

"Well," she sighed, looking out the window as he dried his hands on the towel hanging through the refrigerator handle. "I suppose now we should go take care of Puff."

Mike stiffened, and looked at her over his shoulder. The lost, haunted little girl was back, for just a second, before Dori brushed her hand across her eyes. Smiling tremulously at him, she turned and led the way, out the back door Jason had huddled against last week, trying to avoid the large dog. Looked like Jason had gotten his wish; the big dog wasn’t around to protect Dori anymore. Remembering the way Jason had leered at them just before he let, Mike got a sudden queasy feeling in his stomach as he followed Dori across the yard to the tool shed.

Just what, exactly, had happened to Puff?

 


	6. Chapter 6

__

_We are the clumsy passersby, we push past each other with elbows..._

_We are all guilty, we are all sinners..._

_yet even so, on the edge of panic..._

_we are one and the same, the same in time's eyes..._

_~~Pablo Neruda_

Johnny's Land Rover pulled into Mike's driveway an hour later, just as Mike was crossing the street to retrieve Puff's body. Johnny got out, folding his sunglasses into a pocket of his red calico shirt as he waited for Mike. The afternoon air was still, forerunner of the heat in months to come. Even the birds and insects seemed to have given up and gone home for the day.

"Hey, Mike. You taking up farming?" Johnny waved at Mike's dirt-covered jeans.

"You're late," Mike replied, pushing past Johnny towards the garage. Trying to hide his grin, he kept his head down and his back turned to his friend. Sometimes, it was just too easy.

"Late!" Johnny sputtered, before following Mike at a run. He caught up at the garage door. Mike dug his keys out of his pocket, sorting through to find the one for the Master Lock he kept on the garage. Johnny leaned against the garage and sputtered, "Whaddaya mean, late? I didn't know you wanted me here at a specific time! You never said anything about that last night!"

Mike opened the lock and pocketed his keys before turning to face an open-mouthed Johnny. Waving away a sudden fly, he kept his face straight for a few seconds, and then grinned.

"You're right, I never said anything last night." There was a beat, and then Johnny's mouth snapped closed. He stood up straight, crossed his arms, and glared at Mike.

"You--you--you--" Johnny stammered, then pointed one finger at Mike for emphasis, still searching for something to say. He gave up and propped his hands on his hips while he stared at Mike in disgust. "I--You know, I oughta just leave you here and make you call a cab to go get your truck."

Mike laughed and turned to pull the lock out of its brace, swinging the bar it held in place back before replacing the lock in the metal loop. He grinned at Johnny as he turned the latch on the old doors.

"Your prerogative, but it'd be a waste of your afternoon driving out here, then."

Whatever reply Johnny might have made was lost in the stench that wafted out of Mike's garage as he swung one door out. Fortunately the odor dissolved quickly in the open air--along with Mike's good humor at tweaking Johnny. He hesitated, wishing momentarily that he'd never volunteered to do this for Dori.

"Whew! What have you got in there, Mike? Bear bait?" Johnny turned his head away and waved a hand in front of his face. Mike ducked his head without answering and, breathing lightly through his mouth, took the few steps over to Puff's body in a hurry. Might as well get it over with. He bent over and grabbed the tarp the big dog lay on. The tarp scraped across the concrete as Mike pulled the dog out onto the driveway. He returned, but hesitated, and then decided not to close the door. It wouldn't hurt for it to be left open for a while to let the remnants of the odors from Puff's body dissipate, allow the garage to return to its more familiar scent of gasoline and rubber from the dune buggy parked there.

Out in the clear sunshine, Johnny was staring down at Puff's head, just visible between the folds of the tarp. Mike watched as Johnny knelt suddenly, folding the canvas back to examine the dog more closely. He met Johnny's startled gaze, waited for him to ask the questions he could see in the dark eyes.

"Who--wha--why do you have a dead dog in your garage, Mike? Who killed it?"

Who killed it? Mike stared down at Puff, not sure he wanted to ask Johnny why he thought someone had killed the big dog. That night he'd caught Puff in his refrigerator, happily devouring raw eggs in the shell, he'd been furious. But angry as he'd been, he'd never have taken it out on the animal. He'd locked him in the laundry room while he cleaned up the mess and never even mentioned it to Dori. Puff was a good dog, a fun dog, and Mike wasn't sure he wanted to even think about the fact that Jason might have made good on his threat.

Johnny was staring at him, though, waiting for an answer. Then again, if the paramedic could give him some answers, maybe it would point the finger of suspicion elsewhere. Mike shrugged and drew the tarp back, exposing the dog's entire body.

"It's my neighbor's dog."

"Dori?" Johnny's question was sharp, and Mike looked at him, confused. But Johnny wasn't revealing any of his thoughts right now.

"Yeah. She came last night and asked me to help her bury him." Mike hesitated, not sure how much he wanted to share about the events of the previous evening. Dori had been pretty embarrassed this morning. He finally shrugged. "She was pretty upset about the whole thing. I talked her into waiting until today, told her I'd help her bury him."

"This why you were late last night?"

Mike nodded, but Johnny was staring at the dog again. His hands went out, running gently over the dog's broken body, probing, examining... Mike sat down on his heels, waiting for the verdict.

"Ribs're stove in," Johnny muttered, moving on down the dog's body. "Hip's out of joint, broken leg..." Mike's mouth went sour. Maybe he didn't want Johnny to confirm anything after all. Johnny's hands moved back up to the dog's head. He bent over and examined Puff's tongue, protruding darkly from his mouth, and then ran his hands lightly down the dog's neck.

"Dori thinks he was hit by a car, then dragged himself as close to home as he could," Mike offered, not quite sure why he felt the need to say something.

Johnny just grunted, his hands busy digging in the fur at Puff's neck. He left off, leaning back and digging in the pocket of his jeans. Coming up with a pocket knife, he opened it and went back to Puff's neck, digging at the fur again. After a second he slipped the knife in and pulled up sharply. Both men stared at the fine cord he held out, ends clean where he'd cut it, and a short, frayed end dangling from a knot.

Mike reached out to finger the familiar shape twisting the cord around itself.

"A tautline hitch," he said, and Johnny nodded. This time the paramedic's gaze was bleak when it met his own. A tautline hitch was a knot that worked itself tighter and tighter as more pressure was put on it.

"Somebody not only didn't want him getting away, they were trying to choke him into submission." Penknife in one hand, cord dangling from the other, Johnny rested both arms across his knees. "He probably died as much from the lack of oxygen and dehydration as he did the other injuries."

There was silence as they stared at the dog. Mike waved a few flies away from Puff's face, wishing he could wave away the facts of Johnny's discovery as easily. Johnny finally looked up at him. Taking a deep breath, he opened his mouth, and --

"Mike?" Dori's voice preceded her around the Land Rover. She hesitated at the front of the vehicle, her gaze going from Mike to Johnny, then Puff. She frowned, but didn't say anything, just wrapped her arms around her waist and stared at some point between them all. Mike got hastily to his feet. He swallowed, but it didn't alleviate the sudden dryness in his mouth.

"Dori, you remember Johnny? The paramedic from the fire the other day?" He waved one hand at Johnny, wondering why he felt so nervous about being caught--caught? They weren't doing anything. On second thought, he wasn't sure he was ready to tell Dori about what he and Johnny had just discovered. Gravel scraped beneath a booted heel as Johnny stood beside him. Mike didn't miss the careful way Johnny dropped the thin cord and then took a small step to stand on it as he stood. He allowed himself one deep breath in relief.

Folding and pocketing his knife, the paramedic held his hand out to Dori.

"You're looking a little less sooty today." Johnny grinned his full wattage grin, and Mike bit back a groan. He'd forgotten how two had reacted to each other at the fire. But when he turned to Dori, she seemed anything but glad to see Johnny. For a second the haunted look was back on her face, but then she blinked and found a smile somewhere. It wasn't anything like the simpering one she'd given Johnny the other day, though, and her eyes were guarded. Hmm....Maybe she had just inhaled a little too much smoke at the fire.

"I remember you; fastest scissors in the west," Dori finally said, her smile taking the sting out of the words. She lifted her bandaged hand and her smile became apologetic. "Sorry, can't shake your hand this time either."

Johnny ignored the scissors comment entirely, much to Mike's surprise. Instead, the paramedic frowned.

"What happened?" He stepped forward, his hand out toward Dori. Her smile faltered and then she dropped her gaze to the pavement. Putting her hand down at her side, she ignored Johnny's obvious intention of checking out the injury.

"Oh, it's nothing, really. I grabbed a skillet without a pot-holder this morning." Dori glanced up and offered another faint smile. But she kept her hand down at her side, half behind her. Johnny stared at her, his hand still out.

"Would you like me to take a look at it?" he asked, with an intensity that Mike didn't understand. Dori shook her head, taking half a step back away from the paramedic. Johnny started toward her anyway, and Mike automatically reached to halt him as Dori, looking anywhere but at the two men moved even further back. But Johnny stopped after two steps and Mike let his hand fall. They both watched Dori back into the front of the Land Rover. Staring at the ground, she shook her head and took a deep breath. Then she looked up and offered a cheerful smile.

"It's not bad, really. It didn't even blister. And I do have a valid Red Cross first aid card." Dori's smile wavered, her eyes nervously flicking from Johnny back to Mike. It was obvious that she did not want Johnny's attention right now. Mike decided it was time to come to Dori's rescue.

"Johnny, would you mind helping me here?"

Still staring at Dori, Johnny hesitated, but he turned and nodded to Mike.

"Sure, what do you want me to do?"

It took the two men less than twenty minutes to bury Puff at the spot Dori'd chosen, inside the old orchard and behind the tool shed. Dori watched as they laid him carefully in the grave Mike had already dug, and he tried to ignore her sniffling as he shoveled the dirt over the big dog's body. The hole filled in, they smoothed the dirt over the raw grave in the orchard. Punching the shovel upright into the ground next to the grave, Mike looked over to see Dori wiping the tears from her face. She smiled tremulously at him.

"Th-thank you, Mike. And you too, Johnny," she added quickly, glancing at the dark-haired paramedic, who was leaning on his shovel. "I...I'd offer you, something but.."

"It's okay, Dori," Mike said firmly, gathering up her shovel and pick. Johnny hefted Mike's shovel with one hand, watching Dori again with that strange look on his face. She caught Johnny's gaze, and blushed, hanging her head and staring at her feet. Mike felt a flash of anger at his friend. Dammit, couldn't the man see she was upset? Mike walked over and stopped in front of her, stood between her and Johnny, waiting until she looked up at him.

"Why don't you go on home, Dori?" he said gently. "I'll put these away for you."

Dori looked away, then back up at him. The tears were suddenly overflowing, streaming down her face and she didn't even try to smile when she met his gaze this time.

"He was a such a wonderful animal. I can't hardly believe..." She gulped, and stopped, staring at the grave. "I hate to leave him here, alone..."

Mike shifted, then awkwardly reached up and patted her shoulder.

"I know. I'm gonna miss him, too."

The twisting of her lips barely qualified as a smile, but it was an effort. Mike stood there while she stared down at the grave. Then she took a deep breath, and met his gaze.

"Thank you," she said again, looking more like her normal self.

Mike nodded, and watched as she turned and headed off, ducking beneath the branches of one gnarled tree and detouring around another and then out of his line of sight. Air moved beside him, and he looked over to see Johnny, staring after Dori as well. Mike frowned. What in the world was Johnny's problem today? He couldn't be that hard up for a date.

"Come on, let's go," Mike said, and set off across the orchard without waiting to see if Johnny was following or not.

 

* * * * * *

 

Three hours later, Mike was taking his frustrations out on the juniper in the side yard. He'd been meaning to take the scraggly bush out for the last year, but never had gotten around to it. Somehow today seemed like the perfect day to finally get the chore done. Didn't matter that he'd already spent over an hour out in the sun digging a grave for Puff; the physical effort needed to maintain the smooth arc of the pulaski over his head down to the dull thud of the point catching in the earth kept his mind well occupied. As long as he could think about yanking the point free of the clumping dirt, concentrate on planning the next swing of the pulaski, he didn't have to think about anything he didn't want to think about.

_Like how well he knew Dori. _Johnny's quiet question still echoed in his mind, along with the other disturbing things the paramedic had shared with him during the short drive to collect Mike's truck: the bruises he and Roy had seen that day at the fire, some old, some new, some in between. The fact that there was no way for them all to be the result of the shelf falling on her. The fact that they were more typical of bruises that came from some sort of violence--typically violence perpetrated by another human being. The debate between the two paramedics as to whether or not they should say anything to him. The fact that they finally decided they felt strongly enough about it to offer Roy's house, or Nurse McCall's, as a temporary refuge, if he did find out Dori needed a safe haven.

Mike yanked the last of the roots out, and flung the bush aside. He got his axe and chopped up what he couldn't cut up with the snippers. Taking out the bush filled what was left of his afternoon and spilled over into early evening. Finally, sweat pouring down his chest and sides, Mike filled in the second hole he'd dug that day, put away his tools, and used his t-shirt to towel away the dirt and grime. It was time for a shower and some supper.

Entering the house, Mike ignored his newspaper, lying unread on the coffee table. He'd already been fooled once; no need to look at the obituaries--or their pictures--again. It wasn't Cara, though for a breathless second this afternoon Mike had believed it was. As Johnny had pointed out, the picture of their murdered prostitute looked enough like her to be her twin. He had refused the paper when Johnny shoved it at him, and after giving him a long hard look, the paramedic had tossed it into the back of the Land Rover. Heading for the shower, Mike detoured into the living room and tossed his own newspaper into the garbage.

Feeling clean and somewhat refreshed after his shower, he slid into jeans and a shirt. Dirty clothes gathered into a bundle, he stepped out into the short hall and shot the smelly wad past the kitchen in the general direction of the laundry room. Walking out into the living room, Mike stopped well back from the large front window. He buttoned the blue plaid shirt, staring across the street at Dori's house, her porch all that was visible from his current vantage point.

What in the hell was he supposed to do with Johnny's information? He didn't consider himself a hero, never had. He'd never been interested in the more exotic aspects of rescue work; knowing some basic first aid and pulling victims from fires and other situations was about all he wanted to do when it came to that part of his job. He'd signed up to be a firefighter, not a trapeze artist. Johnny and Roy sometimes seemed a bit too gung ho on all this rescue crap; Chet and Marco too. That was fine with Mike, they could climb the towers and go down in the holes to get people out. Mike would be there to hold the ropes, to pull them to safety, anchor them to the real world. Even Batman needed Albert. Nothing wrong with being behind the scenes helping and facilitating.

Until, it seemed, you were needed at the front lines.

Sighing, Mike turned toward the kitchen just as a familiar roar came down the street. He tensed, shifted slightly so he could see Dori's driveway over one shoulder. Sure enough, tires squealed and Surfer Bob's dune buggy pulled up. Wait, no, what had Dori called him this morning? Warren? Yeah, that was it. Mike shook his head and bit back a grin as the two young men jumped out of the dune buggy and headed for the house, pizza boxes in hand. Warren. What a name. Poor guy would probably prefer Surfer Bob. Shoot, he was the type who probably told his friends to call him "Dude" or something stupid like that.

He tucked in his shirt and returned to his room for tennis shoes and socks, trying to push away the memory of Johnny's voice this afternoon.

_"Mike, it's got to be someone she knows. Someone she sees consistently. Her father, a boyfriend--"_

_"She lives with her brother," _he'd insisted, and Johnny had just looked at him. _"How dumb can you get?" _the look had said, and Mike had turned away, unable to face his friend's certainty.

_"She's not my real sister," _Jason had sneered this morning.

Mike dropped his shoes and socks on the coffee table and stared at the wall. Damn, what was he supposed to do? Yeah, sure, he could show up at Dori's house, say, "My paramedic friends think Jason's beating up on you. They want me to take you to one of their houses until you find somewhere safe to go, away from him." And Dori would smile up at him with that lazy smile and ask him what in the world he thought he was talking about.

Or would she? The memory of Jason's leering whisper this morning turned his stomach, and then there was Puff... Mike shot a nervous look at the farmhouse across the street. Everything was quiet there, and he looked away. He was just hungry, that's all. Eating a late breakfast and then working all afternoon in the hot sun without water or much of a break wasn't his most brilliant idea.

He had the bacon out and the eggs cracked and ready to go before he reached under his stove for the skillet. The heavy cast iron pan rattled on the stove and Mike adjusted the flame beneath it. Then he stared at the skillet, his stomach suddenly twisted in a way that had nothing to do with hunger, and probably guaranteed he wouldn't be eating anything after all.

_"I grabbed the skillet without a hot pad..." _Dori had blamed her burned hand on her own carelessness this morning. Mike knew damn well she hadn't burned her hand before he'd seen her last night. And yeah, drunk as she had been, hungover as she had been this morning, there was every reason to believe that she'd done exactly as she said.

Except that all Dori's skillets had wooden handles.


	7. Chapter 7

__

_The dim boy claps because the others clap._

_The score is always close, the rally always short._

_I've left more wreckage than a quake._

_Isn't it wrong, the way the mind moves back._

_~~Richard Hugo_

It took some time for Mike to get his thoughts together and his shoes on, and even then he waited another hour, until Jason and Warren roared off again in the dune buggy. There was no way he was going to broach this subject with Jason there in the house with her.

Standing at his front door, he stared across the street at Dori's house. Damn, he was turning into a regular voyeur here, a la Jimmy Stewart. Mike had always liked Hitchcock; "Rear Window" was a favorite. But even Jimmy had had sidekicks in his story, if you could truly label Grace Kelly a sidekick. Johnny had offered to go with him, but he'd promised to fill in the last part of Dwyer's shift and hadn't been able to stay while Mike decided what to do. Now that he had decided, Mike thought briefly that maybe he should take Johnny's final suggestion and call Roy to come over and go with him. On second thought, it was going to be hard enough to talk to Dori as it was. And, if her reaction to Johnny this afternoon was any indication, he'd be lucky to get in the door if he had anyone else with him.

No, he was better off bearding this lion alone. Taking a deep breath, Mike grasped the doorknob, turned it, and stepped out of his house and into the soft, spring night.

Dori answered his knock fairly quickly, smiling brightly when she saw him there.

"Mike, hi," she said, making no move to open the door and let him in. Moths fluttered around the porch light she'd turned on, and Mike flinched as a couple of them got too close to his face.

"Hi, Dori." Waving the moths away, he stared at her through the brown mesh of the screen door. She looked like she'd been crying, but then again, that could easily be blamed on her grief for Puff. The big dog had been a fixture in her life for a long time, and their adoration had been mutual. Thinking of Puff brought Mike back to the opening he'd finally decided on for trying to talk to Dori. Puff's attitude towards Jason was one more tip of the scales in favor of Johnny's assertions this afternoon; Puff's death was another.

"Uh...mind if I come in?" he asked, smiling slightly. Dori's hesitation was brief, but real. However, Mike had counted on her southern hospitality, and he wasn't disappointed. Nodding her head, Dori pushed the door open.

"Sure, come on in."

Lit by several lamps, the living room looked much the same as it had this morning, except for the open pizza box sitting on the dining table. The smells of cold grease and pepperoni dominated the room. Dori waved him to a seat on the couch, and headed for the table. She lifted an empty glass, and inclined her head in his direction.

"There's pizza if you're hungry, and more tea in the fridge."

His stomach gnawing at him with something besides hunger, Mike shook his head as he dropped to a seat on the couch.

"No, thanks, I ate supper." Not that swallowing two aspirin with a glass of milk could be considered supper. Dori nodded and ducked into the kitchen. Ice broke and then tinkled in a glass, and Mike shifted nervously on the couch. What was he doing here? What in the world did he think he'd prove with this conversation? He wiped his forehead with one hand and then dropped it down on the cushion next to him. A cascade of little plops came from the floor, and Mike leaned forward and stared down at the deck of cards that his movement had dislodged.

"You're sure?" Dori's voice floated from the kitchen, and he shook his head again as he knelt to gather the cards he'd accidentally scattered. Then he remembered to answer verbally.

"Yeah, thanks anyway," he called, staring at the card he'd just turned over. A ship in full sail lingered in the front of the watercolor picture, while behind it a rather enticingly rendered nude woman rose waist high from a lake, her arms lifted high and her head arched back. Curious, Mike turned over another of the cards, their backs dark purple with gold patterning. This time it was a knight riding on a black horse, red cloth draped from its saddle. Another picture revealed a knight, a white tunic over his chainmail, hanging by his neck from a tree. Before he could investigate further, Dori was there, bending over and gathering the cards up.

He handed her the three he held, and she smiled shyly as she took them.

"Sorry, I forgot I had these out."

"What are they?" he asked, as she shuffled them back into a pile and then reached for a nearby box and carefully placed them inside.

"Just a Tarot deck I picked up a couple of weeks ago." She shrugged as she met his eyes. "I have a deck I inherited from my Dad's mother, but these caught my eye and I thought it would be nice to have a new deck."

"You inherited a Tarot deck from your grandmother?" Mike asked, incredulously. All he'd inherited from his grandmother was a touch of hay fever and a tendency to slouch. The poor woman had been six foot tall, three inches taller than his grandfather.

Cards safely stowed, Dori stood, then shrugged and nodded. She headed for the other end of the couch, box in hand.

"It was her mother's, who brought it with her from Jamaica. It's a very old deck, couple hundred years, at least. I got so nervous with Ja--I bought these so I could keep the others in my safe deposit box."

His stomach knotting again, Mike stared up at Dori as she pulled out a drawer in the end table and quickly rearranged the contents to make room for the small box. Did he really want to know what she had meant to say? Could he really tell himself he didn't know what name she'd almost let slip? He tried not to look like he was thinking anything as she looked up. The smile she returned for his was almost too cheerful as she pushed the drawer shut and headed over to grab her tea glass from the dining table. Mike scrambled up from the floor and reclaimed his seat as she crossed the room again.

"Jason and Warren brought the pizza, said it was their turn to feed me for once." She laughed, and shook her head, taking a drink from her glass. "Even made the tea for me." Dori pushed the newspaper lying on the other end of the couch onto the floor and sat, facing him.

Mike nodded and smiled, words escaping him for the moment. The bandaged hand rested in her lap, and he stared at it before looking up to meet Dori's curious gaze. Curled up on the couch, feet tucked under her and dark hair loose about her face, she looked about twelve years old. Well, okay, maybe not twelve, not with a figure like hers. But with her huge dark eyes and her pale face, she looked small and vulnerable. She tilted her head at him, and suddenly Mike saw a small bird, one that had flown into the large, plate glass front window of his childhood home. Rescued by an eight-year-old Mike and his younger sister, the bird had cowered in the corner of the towel lined box they provided, cocking its head as its huge black eyes blinked up at them. His mother had taken pity on the thing eventually and released it outside, over Mike and Laura's howling protests. The terrified bird couldn't fly straight, but it had flown away. Mike watched it until he saw it taking refuge in a large sequoia at the far edge of their property.

Tilting her head slightly, Dori's smile was a question, and Mike looked away from both her and the memory, his throat suddenly dry. He had never told anybody, but two days later, he'd found the bird's tiny body, stiff and lifeless in the dust and duff at the base of the tree. Mike had buried it deep in the dirt behind their garage, placing several chunks of broken concrete on top of the tiny grave to discourage scavengers. As far as he knew, the tiny skeleton still laid there.

Taking a deep breath, he leaned forward, his arms braced on his knees, and studied his clenched hands. Dori waited, the only sound in the room the chink of ice in her glass as she drank.

"Dori..." he finally said, turning to look at her. Swallowing, he forced the words out. "Where...what exactly happened to Puff?"

She jerked, nearly dropping her glass. Dropping her head so that her hair hid her face, it was a moment before she answered him.

"What...what do you mean?" She wouldn't look at him.

Mike took a deep breath. Okay, in for a penny, in for a pound.

"There was a rope around his neck, Dori. Johnny said he'd been at least partially strangled. As well as starved and beaten." His voice was gentle, but still, she cringed at his words, turning away from him.

"He was probably hit by a car," she said, dully.

Mike shook his head.

"Then how did he wind up in the field behind your house?"

"Trying to get home," she whispered, still refusing to look at him. There was a stifled sound, and Mike realized she was crying. Oh, great, twice in one day he'd reduced the girl to tears. He was batting a thousand here.

"But...you said he was never really gone."

She flinched, and curled further in on herself, but she didn't answer him. Silence filled the room as Mike waited. But Dori apparently had no answer for that one. Mike swallowed, took a deep breath, and tried again.

"Dori...the reason I'm asking...Jason, he...last week...the afternoon I brought Puff over to my house, Jason made some threats, against Puff. I...I didn't take them that seriously at the time, I mean, he'd had a good scare and I figured he was just angry. We all know he didn't get along with Puff. But...for Puff to turn up dead and ... Johnny... he and Roy...the day of the fire..." Mike trailed off, staring hopelessly at his neighbor.

There was nothing relaxed about Dori now. She sat rigid at the end of the couch, her head down and her feet on the floor. Elbows tight against her waist, she cradled the burned hand to her chest, the other one clenched tightly about the nearly empty tea glass. Mike's throat was dry, and he swallowed vainly, trying to moisten it.

"Dori...why...why wouldn't you go to the hospital?" Nothing. No reaction, not even a quiver. Mike would have been more reassured if she was standing up yelling at him by now.

"Johnny...they...they were worried about you. He said...the bruises you had weren't all from the fire, there were some that were older than that, some that were more consistent with...with..." The dark head didn't move, sat stone-still, bowed beneath the sputtering fire of his words, leaving him to flounder on his own. "Dori...if, if Jason's hurting you--"

He stopped, waiting for her to deny it, willing her to deny it.

The whisper was so soft, at first he didn't realize she'd spoken.

"What did you say?"

She stood, then, walking across the room to the dining table. She drained her tea, set the glass carefully on the table. Her head down, she still didn't look at him.

"He doesn't mean to."

Mike knew his mouth was hanging open, he just didn't have the wherewithal to close it right now. She stared down at the table, then looked up, drawing in a deep breath as she contemplated the ceiling, her hand dangling limply beside her.

"He just...he's always been that way...rough...and he never did learn to control his temper. Even when he was little."

Dori shivered now, and swayed, slightly. Shaking her head, she grabbed the table, then sat abruptly, nearly missing the chair she was aiming for.

"He...he was such a cute baby, and I...Sandy was so much older, than me, he'd moved out of the house before Daddy died and I...I wanted a little brother or sister so bad..." Hands limp in her lamp, Dori stared blankly off into the corner of the room. "And then Mom and Max got married, and Jason...he was..." She shook her head, and looked at Mike. From across the room her eyes looked almost completely black. "He wasn't quite...quite what I expected," she finally said, with a small smile.

Mike got up and crossed the room to where she sat. Going down on one knee beside her chair, he gently reached for her hand. She didn't pull it away, just stared bemusedly at him as he pulled it out to where the bandage was plainly visible. Might as well go for broke.

"Did Jason do this?"

Dori giggled, reaching up to run her hand through his hair. Mike jerked his head away and stared at her. Her eyes were huge, and in this light he could see the pupils were almost completely dilated.

"I can't tell you that. Might...might aggravate him. And..." She leaned toward him, tugging at his shirt collar with her free hand, smiling softly. "Trust me, you don't want to aggravate Jason." Patting his shoulder, she sat back and pulled her hand away from his. She reached for her glass and took a drink, frowning into the glass when she realized it was empty. Still staring, Mike got to his feet as Dori pushed herself up from the chair. She placed the glass carefully on the table, then staggered. Mike caught her before she fell. Just like last night, Dori leaned limply against him, smiling. She giggled.

"Better pu'...put me down 'fore Cara sees you, Mike. She might think I'm tryin' to horn in on...on her man. Too' so long for you to ask her out...I don' think she'd 'preciate me cuttin' in quite this soon."

What in the world was going on? Setting her carefully on her feet, Mike reached for the glass on the table and sniffed it, then swept a finger around the inside and tasted it. No liquor, and he hadn't smelled it on her breath. Then Dori cried out, and he turned swiftly. She was sprawled across the floor in front of the couch, giggling.

"Ring around the rosy, pocket full of po-zzzees," she sang, reaching for the couch to pull herself up. She had gotten herself up to her knees when he got there. Collapsing back against the couch, she leaned her head to one side and smiled hugely at him. One hand found the newspaper on the floor and clenched around it.

"Mike..." She burped loudly, and giggled, and then her gaze grew serious. "Cara...you took Cara to the airpor', di'n choo?"

Damn, had she gone completely around the bend here? Mike felt an irrational surge of anger: at Johnny, for talking him into this, and at Dori, for being so intractable. And why do this, why now?

"Dori, what did you take? Tell me what you took," he insisted, grabbing her shoulder and turning her chin so she had to look at him.

She frowned, pulling away from his grip..

"Ash...asp'rin," she said, blinking at him. "I too' asp'rin. Jays-Jason gave it to me...My head hurt." The newspaper she held rustled, and she held it up and awkwardly tapped him with it. "Cara...you too' her to airpor'?" she asked again.

Mike nodded, frowning. What would be easier, to call for help, or take her in himself? She was small, he could carry her to his car easy enough. And that would definitely get less attention from the neighbors than a squad arriving, lights and sirens blaring.

"Dori, I want you to come with me, okay? I'm going to take you to the hospital." Either that or Roy's house, like Johnny had suggested. No, the paramedic would probably insist on taking her in anyway. May as well skip that step and go straight to the hospital.

Dori shook her head, tapping him with the newspaper again.

"Cara," she said. "Jason... he wan'...Cara...said 'no'...he was sho mad...you an' Cara..."

Mike stared at her, incredulously. Then his gaze shifted down at the paper she held clenched in her hand. It was the same one Johnny had showed him today, the one with the picture of the murdered prostitute that at first glance had looked like Cara. Dori fumbled with his shirt as he took the paper from her, then giggled. He smoothed out the newsprint; like Johnny's paper, it, too, was open to the obituary for Amanda Parsons. Her eyes huge in the lamplight, Dori stared up at him, and Mike was again reminded of the little bird in the box.

"Dori..." he swallowed; his mouth was full of dust again. The anger drained from him and he felt a cold thrill of fear in his bones.

"Her...not Cara. Jays...Jason...he wan' Cara. He was so mad...I came home too soon, he...Cara woke up..."

Cara woke up? Dori came home too soon?

His stomach crawling, Mike stared down at Dori, who was blinking heavily now. She sighed, and slid limply down until she lay half on the floor, half against the couch, smiling up at him.

Jason and Warren brought the pizza and made her tea. Jason gave Dori the aspirin tonight. Jason liked Cara; Warren liked Dori. But Cara had said "No." Amanda Parsons might have said "no" too, but she wasn't around to verify anything. And now Dori must have said "no" as well.

"Dori, get up! Come on! Let's get you out of here."

She laughed when he shook her shoulder, but lost the laugh halfway through in a burp. Batting lightly at his hand, she shifted down to lay on the floor, humming and giggling. Only half open, her eyes were glassy in the light of the small lamp. Mike dropped the paper and bent over, scooping her up carefully in his arms. Dori sighed, and snuggled into his chest as he stood, cradling her.

"I'm going to take you to the hospital, Dori, okay? You'll be safe there."

He took whatever noise she made as assent. The front door swung inward as he turned toward it with his burden, and Mike found himself facing a smiling Jason, Surfer Bob at his heels. Jason's grin grew as Warren pushed the door shut and both men came into the room, stopping a few steps in front of Mike.

"See, Warren, I told you the 'ludes would have her down by now." Mike took a step forward, intending to shove past the two and out the door. Jason and Surfer Bob moved together, blocking his path. The light glinted on their teeth; their smiles were feral. For a moment the three men stared at each other, and then Jason snickered. "And now we get to play with fireboy, too."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next are where it gets really dark. I try to cover events with tact and grace, so it's not graphic, _per se_, but it is intense.

__

_Lay me low_

_Lay me low_

_Lay me low, where no one can see me_

_Where no one can find me_

_Where no one can hurt me_

_~ ~ John Tams_

There was a fly crawling on his ear, meandering out toward his cheek. Mike rubbed his face on one aching arm, and the insect buzzed off without biting him. Not that it mattered, there were plenty more where it came from--and plenty of attractions in the old barn to entertain them. In the lazy, late-morning warmth, the darkened interior of the old barn was awash with the odors of stale booze and sweat and vomit and dog piles and more. It was only a matter of time before another one or two or three of the large horseflies returned to annoy him, and beyond the occasional shiver or rubbing his head against his arms, there wasn't anything he could do about them.

Not that he'd been able to do much about anything at all in the last few hours. He hadn't been able to help himself, and he sure as hell hadn't been able to help Dori.

Here and there a shaft of light found its way through the slatted walls and overarching greenery, dust and motes dancing like smoke in the ethereal beams. More strips of sunshine congregated to his right, near the closed door; the rest of the building's interior remained immured in a dusty tomb of grey on grey. Mike's eyes were long accustomed to the darkness, and he kept his face turned from the needless pain of the light. To his right was half a wall of hay, some of the bales loosened and falling apart; their contents dripping down into a sloping pile on the floor. A thin layer of straw covered much of the bare wood floor, pooling around the support beams for the loft above. Mike stood directly in the middle of the barn, beneath the highest point of the roof.

He knew it was useless, but still he tried once more to lift his wrists free of the large metal hay hook they were bound to. Before his hands had gone numb he'd managed to grab hold of the hook and swing most of his weight from it, attempting several times to pull the entire thing down. But while the rest of the barn might be crumbling into ruin, the roofbeam he was suspended from was still solid. The old wood had creaked and groaned, but hadn't budged at all. Instead, Mike's own hopes had slowly frittered away, dying a little more with each failed attempt at freedom. More cord tethered Mike's left foot to a nearby pole; that prevented him from swinging the chain more than a foot or two either direction. His arms suspended from the hook above him, he couldn't reach his foot to untie it; even standing on tiptoe he couldn't reach high enough to get his bound wrists off the damn hook...

And he couldn't reach Dori.

Shaking the chain again in a desperate effort to get some sort of response from her, Mike waited in vain. With nothing else to rattle against, the chain's noise was muted; he'd hoped it was enough to get her attention. But once again, there was no movement from the body sprawled bonelessly on the straw beneath the bales. She lay as Jason and Warren had last left her, pale limbs a ghostly cipher in the darkness, and Mike couldn't get close enough to her to know if she was still alive or not.

The drugs Jason had slipped her had done their work, whether it had been the "aspirin" he'd given her or in the tea he'd made for her. Dori had been too out of it to put up much of a fight. But she'd tried; Mike had heard at least one or two hard blows land during their ordeal. In the hours since Jason and Warren had left, he'd tried to remember everything he'd ever heard about Quaaludes, but hadn't come up with much--except he was fairly certain Dori should have come around by now. The only reason he could think of that she hadn't was that Jason had given her too much, close to an overdose.

His own injuries so far were more irritating than anything else. The need to pee had come and gone in the hours since his confinement. The numbness in his hands he tried to ignore, turning to the plethora of other sensations clamoring for his attention. His skin itched beneath the duct tape covering the lower half of his face; his arms ached incessantly from their enforced position above his head. His ribs and stomach muscles were sore and bruised; his head ached, and he was thirsty and, oddly enough, hungry.

Fortunately, nothing seemed to be broken, in spite of the blows he'd taken. Jason and Warren seemed to think it funny that he objected to their treatment of Dori, and had passed the time between their assaults on her drinking and using him as a punching bag. Mike had done his best to keep their attention focused on him, but inevitably they would tire of hitting him and return to her. He refused to watch, even as Jason had teased him about giving him his own turn if he would. But while eyes could be closed, ears couldn't and he had enough horrific images from this one night he doubted he'd ever want to be with a woman again.

Mike shivered, willing the memories away. Not that it worked; whether he wanted to or not, they clung to his mind like the smells in the barn and his sweaty shirt clung to his body. The long wail of a siren brought his head up and he listened, unable to stop the hope that flared in his chest and choked its way up into his throat. The guys at the station had to know he was missing by now; it wasn't like him to just not show up for work. But whether or not they'd connect his disappearance to Dori and then Jason, he had no way of knowing. The siren faded slowly, and Mike hung his head. Someone else was going to be rescued this time--not him, and not Dori. He shifted restlessly, trying and failing to find a position that didn't put any more strain on his arms.

The dune buggies out in the field last night had been the last he'd heard of Jason and Warren, along with their cowboy yells and laughter. They'd pulled his keys from his pocket after several hours and several bottles, laughing and mocking him as they left. Mike knew he'd be lucky if he had anything of value left in his house, let alone a functional dune buggy when they were done. But it had gotten the two vultures out of the barn, away from him, and more importantly, away from Dori. They'd promised to return, but that had been hours ago, and Mike could only hope they were sleeping off their night of "fun"--or if he was truly lucky, they'd been arrested somewhere.

A fly landed on his fingers and they twitched, the fly launching off in protest. Mike closed his eyes and leaned his head against one arm, fighting the absurd tears that abruptly threatened. _His fingers could still move_. The relief that simple thought brought was enough to renew his efforts to escape, and he once again rattled the chain. No response from the other side of the barn, even after several minutes of effort on his part, and the will to try eventually dissipated into the rising hopelessness of their situation. Mike leaned his head against the other arm. The stupor in which he'd spent most of the dawning morning lurked about the edges of his consciousness, and he found himself welcoming it, his thoughts retreating into the nonfunctional state his body and soul craved.

It was a while before his mind was able to get past the numbness. But gradually the background noises separated into distinct sounds: buzzing flies and distant traffic, sniffling sobs and rustling hay. He blinked, trying to bring his thoughts into some sort of order. The pattern of light had shifted, the beams of light came from different angles now. Unsure how much time had passed, Mike swung his head around, the chain rattling accompaniment. In the shadows by the bales of straw, Dori was sitting up, fumbling with the buttons on her shirt.

Suddenly, as if she felt his eyes on her, Dori froze. The small noises she had been making disappeared completely as, head hanging, she waited for a long second, then tilted her head slightly. It took Mike a moment before he realized that she was trying to scope out her surroundings. A moment later her eyes met his in the semi-darkness. Her hands fell away from her shirt as she sat up straight and stared blankly at him. Then her mouth dropped open and she gasped.

"Mike! Oh my god!"

He couldn't respond, but he watched as she started to get up and then stopped, suddenly, dropping her head again and curling her bare legs beneath her. She didn't look at him as she groped about in the gloom, eventually coming up with the darker shadow of her jeans. Mike didn't know if she noticed that he closed his eyes and looked away, but once again he couldn't close his ears as she worked her way into her clothes. Finally he heard the zipper going up. Giving her a few more seconds just to be sure, he looked back in her direction.

Dori limped toward him. More than limped, she moved awkwardly, stiffly, stumbling over the hay and catching herself with a soft cry against a nearby post. Once again Mike cursed his own helplessness. Stopping several feet away from him, she rubbed dazedly at her face with her bandaged hand, and then looked at him. Her tangled hair was a darker shade of the dim interior of the barn, and, like the other night outside his garage, her eyes were simply huge, empty holes in her face. Dried blood trailed darkly from a swollen lip, and a large bruise spread up from her jaw across her cheek. Her gaze brushed past his face, then followed the chain he was bound to up and over.

He turned as she moved off slowly behind him, then she was out of his line of sight. There was an irrational moment of fear that she was going to run away and leave him there, leave him for Jason and Warren when they returned. But that fear was lost in the pain as the chain suddenly came loose above him. The duct tape muffled his cry at the agony of freedom for his arms, the heavy chain landing about his head and shoulders as it fell. Mike staggered, unable to keep his balance after so long suspended between the floor and ceiling. Dori was there, trying to steady him, and they tumbled to the dusty floor together.

All sound was suspended for a brief moment, then the flies began buzzing around the barn as if nothing had ever happened. Dori whimpered, pushing frantically at him, and Mike rolled off her, onto his knees, the chain rattling with him. He knelt, hunched over and rocking slightly, consumed by the throbbing, stabbing pains in his arms and hands. It was a long moment before he could take a deep breath through his nose and look about him. There was no sign of Dori, and he twisted about, searching for her. She was behind him; her head down, she had curled into a tight ball against the post to which he was tethered.

Mike closed his eyes and turned away from her distress, his stomach wrenching. If he could have, he would have thrown up again, the way he had after he realized just exactly what was going to happen in the barn last night, and understood how helpless he truly was to do anything about it. Jason had laughed, blamed it on Mike's weakness, accused him of being old, his muscles flabby, unable to handle a fist or two to the gut. Pride had kept Mike from vocalizing his impotent distress, but he had twisted as far away as he could from the man, done his best to ignore him, to ignore Warren and what he was doing to Dori...

However, his distress must have been audible this afternoon, drawing unwelcome attention. Movement in front of him, and he jerked away from it. When he opened his eyes, Dori knelt there, her eyes carefully not meeting his. Still shivering, she kept one arm wrapped around her waist as she reached for the duct tape on his face. Mike closed his eyes and held himself absolutely still as her nail carefully peeled back a corner large enough to grip.

"This is gonna hurt," she said unnecessarily, pausing for the moment it took for him to nod his assent. Mike gasped as she ripped the tape off. She dropped the tape on the floor beside them while he took the time to be miserable. Daggers and icepicks in his arms and shoulders, prickling where his hands should be, fire on his face, hammers in his skull and torso...he was a regular hardware store all by himself.

Hands on his arms, and when he looked, Dori was examining the knots that bound his wrists to the hay hook. Mike watched silently as she felt carefully around the swollen flesh. There was a tug, and suddenly the hook clattered to the floor. Mike stared down at his arms, wrists still bound together by a short cord. Dori carefully peeled another piece of cording from his wrists, and they both stared at its bloody length in her hands. When he looked up, she shook her head, still refusing to meet his eyes.

"That's what held you to the hook...I...I'm afraid to try to get the rest of it off. Your wrists are awfully swollen, and I don't want to hurt you..." Her voice was dull, with no evident emotion, and again Mike's empty stomach twisted. She dropped the cord beside the tape on the floor, and then she caught her breath in a half sob. Scooting back toward the post, away from him, Dori once again huddled in on herself and stared at the floor. Mike winced as he moved his arms, took a few deep breaths, and watched Dori not looking at him, her breathing suddenly harsh and ragged.

"It's okay." He wasn't sure which one of them he was trying to reassure. Dori flinched away from his rasping voice, and Mike swallowed, trying to work even the least bit of moisture into his parched throat. He'd only seen Johnny and Roy deal with one or two rape victims; the calls for help were rare enough in those cases, and the engine rolling on the call even rarer. Johnny and Roy didn't talk much about those kinds of runs either, and Mike had never asked for details. He vaguely remembered Johnny and Roy asking for permission, reassuring the victim every time they had to touch her.

"Dori..." he started, then faltered. Licking dry lips, he looked away, around the barn, anywhere but at her misery. Finally gathering his courage, he turned back to her. She'd gotten her breathing under control, but she still huddled at the base of the post, leaning against it and staring at the floor. On his knees, he shuffled toward her, his hands out automatically to touch her, offer comfort. But he caught himself and jerked them back before he actually made contact. She didn't move, and, staring helplessly at her, Mike sighed and dropped down to sit beside Dori in the straw. What could he say after what she'd been through? What could he offer her?

Finally, he simply leaned closer, pressed his shoulder lightly against hers. It was as non-threatening and as supportive a gesture as he could think to make, and while she stiffened, she didn't pull away from him. They sat silently, while the flies buzzed and the dust motes danced. Then Mike shook himself out of the near daze he had fallen into and looked down at the bowed head next to him.

"Dori..."

Her name was his apology, for failing to protect her, for failing to get over and help her before Jason and Warren came home, for failing to see what was right there in front of him--for _choosing_ not to see. Sudden shivers took her, and she shook her head, moving away from him.

"No," she whispered. "Please, don't. Just...just don't." Her voice cracked, and she caught her breath, looking up and away, but in the brief glimpse he got of her face, her eyes were glassy in the faint light. Blinking furiously, she took another deep breath and then turned and smiled at him. It was a travesty of a smile, and, worst of all, it was a travesty he recognized. She'd pasted that exact not-quite-smile on her face the other night, asking for help with Puff, and again several times yesterday.

Lead filled his gut, and Mike closed his own eyes, turned his head away before he opened them. Dori stumbled to her feet, swayed, then headed through the dusty light for the door. Mike struggled to get to his own feet. He followed her the two steps the cord on his ankle allowed him. The door creaked and groaned when she pushed on it, much as the ceiling beam had earlier, but this time there was movement. The heavy wood swung outward a ways before catching with a heavy clink against something. Mike winced against the bright light shafting in through the door, and Dori did as well, her hand coming up to shield her eyes as she peered outside.

There was no discernible expression in her face as she turned to him.

"I don't see anyone out there; I think we can squeeze through." She gestured at the crack between the door and the barn. The thought of freedom was enough that Mike risked falling over to lean down and try to get his fingers around the rope on his ankle. The floorboards rumbled slightly, and Dori was there, pushing his hands aside, deftly untying the tautline hitch that bound his ankle.

She was right, there was just enough room for them to squeeze out beneath the heavy chain that held the door shut. Mike led the way, stopping just beyond the door and staring warily about him. Nothing moved in the late morning sun beyond more flies. Dori slid out of the barn behind him. There was no one, nothing, and hope was suddenly full blown.

"Come on," he said, reaching around to usher Dori ahead of him. They'd go to Mrs. Caraveggio's; she'd be home and they could call for help from there. By the time they got around the corner of the barn they were running, and for a second, the man standing there staring at them didn't register. Then recognition kicked in and hope died. Mike altered his course just enough to throw himself at Surfer Bob, and was briefly satisfied as the younger man went down beneath him with a loud "Oomph!" Maybe he'd gotten lucky and broken at least a few of the asshole's ribs. Rolling over and off Warren, he saw Dori, staring uncertainly at him. There was no sign of Jason--yet.

"Dori, run! Get out of here!"

She didn't move until Mike stumbled to his feet and started toward her. Then she turned and took off running again. Mike was three steps behind her when he went down. Damn, Warren didn't look like a football player, but he sure tackled like one. Dragging the kid with him, Mike rolled over on his back and freed one leg. He kicked at the perfect face and was rewarded by a spurt of blood from the no-longer perfect nose. But Warren must have been one of those people with a high pain threshold, because the broken nose didn't slow him down at all. He scrambled up and leaped at the firefighter.

They fell hard into the alfalfa and rolled over a couple of times as they struggled. Then the ground disappeared beneath Mike. The loud "Oomph!" was his as they landed in the bottom of a narrow irrigation ditch, Mike beneath Surfer Bob. The kid was moving, but Mike was busy fighting for breath with the black shadows blurring the edges of his vision. The swirling dots disappeared about the time the kid sat on his stomach, just in time for Mike to deflect the first blow he threw. But his bound hands couldn't stop the second, or the third. Bob's fist landed hard on Mike's face, his jaw; his teeth skidded against each other and he tasted blood. His left eye was already swelling shut. He kicked and tried to buck the kid off his stomach, but that just netted him another chop to the jaw, and Dori screamed as the explosion of stars and pain ushered Mike into darkness.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nasty, ugly things happening.

__

_May God keep all good people,_

_May God keep all good people,_

_May God keep all good people_

_From such bad company..._

_~~~Traditional English Folksong_

The shadows clung to him, impeded his waking, whispered to him: _Stay... _There were things out there he didn't want to know about, events he didn't want to deal with. There were sounds, pictures in his mind that weren't what anyone should have to remember, have to go through. Content with unknowing, Mike floated with the shadows, let them buffer him against the past twenty-four hours.

But the painful signals his body threw at him slowly overrode the shadows: the throbbing pulse in his skull, the deep ache in his shoulders and arms, the myriad nails being driven into his hands. Whatever he lay on was prickly, too, poking uncomfortably through his shirt at his sore ribs, and the annoyance was enough to further thin the sheltering haze of darkness. Mike shifted a bit, moved his legs, tried to relax back into the shadows again. Someone groaned.

"Fireboy's coming around."

The voice floated above him, through him, pulled at the memories he'd rather deny. His leg was prodded roughly, but Mike lay still, resisting the present, coaxing the shadows back. They refused him, and he moved just a bit, seeking a position that would lure the sheltering cocoon of oblivion he'd lain in just moments ago. But the voice had left other sounds behind it, the buzzing of flies, the faint noise of an 18-wheeler gearing down, the distant _shoonk_ of air brakes, someone whimpering...

_Dori... _his mind attached a name to the whimpers, and Mike's stomach turned over. Oh, god, she wasn't supposed to be here, she was supposed to have gotten away, supposed to be somewhere safe! Mike gave in to the despair sweeping through him, but instead of pushing him back into the darkness, the tide swept him further towards consciousness.

Once again, Mike found himself blinking against the bizarre striation of blinding light and deep shadows inside the old barn. He half-lay on his back on a pile of damp straw next to the posts lining the outer edge of the old barn. His vision strangely skewed, it took him a second to tie that to the fact that he could only open one eye.

Movement caught his eye, liquid in the glaring light pouring through the open barn door. A figure flowed, then solidified and came forward to squat down in front of Mike. Jason, loudly chewing gum, arms hanging over his thighs, grinned down at him. Mike stared blankly in return. No sense giving the weasel any further satisfaction. Jason's grin grew even bigger.

"Glad you decided to rejoin us, Fireboy. I'd hate for you to have missed out on the grand finale."

Mike didn't dignify the taunt with an answer, and Jason laughed. More movement in the light and Surfer Bob materialized from the flaring sunshine. His swollen nose and its attendant bruising apparent even in the half-lit barn, he carried a large container, liquid gurgling inside, and what looked like old shirts. A sack dangled from one arm; the clinking within sounded breakable. Jason followed Mike's gaze over to his friend, and his grin now was huge.

"Put that stuff over there." He pointed to the corner opposite Mike, beside the wall of bales. With another insufferable grin, he slapped Mike on the shoulder, and then stood and walked over to help Surfer Bob unload his burdens. Their whispered conversation was impossible to follow. Rolling forward, Mike got his hands underneath him and pushed himself up, refusing to give in to the groans and pain that wracked his beaten body. The numbness in his hands earlier was almost preferable to the sharp stabbing pains that racked them now, but Mike told himself that the pain was a good sign. His fingers would at least twitch when he tried to move them, so maybe there wasn't any permanent damage. But his hands were still tied, the thin cord almost invisible beneath the swollen flesh of his wrists.

The room swung briefly around him as he sat all the way up; he closed his good eye until the swinging feeling passed. Mike told himself the nausea that threatened was from the dizziness, the concussion he probably had after so many blows to the head, and not the fact that Dori was still here, still where these assholes could hurt her--and not the knowledge that once again he'd failed to protect her.

Hell wasn't going to be big enough to contain his guilt over this one.

Jason and Warren were busy, the gurgle of liquid being poured accompanied by the innocent sound of giggling. Mike sniffed carefully, and over the dust and decay and dogshit he smelled...kerosene! Damn! He watched long enough to be sure the men were assembling what he thought they were: Molotov Cocktails. If Mike's stomach hadn't already been twisted in a knot, it would have done so now. Much as he wanted to deny it, things were adding up far too neatly. Jason, and probably Warren, were not only the arsonists, but Amanda Parson's murderers. Only now the boys had educated themselves, graduated to even more dangerous incendiary devices. Great, just great. This old barn would go up like a dry forest in August.

Refusing to watch the construction of his death, he turned away, looking for Dori. The rattle of metal when he moved his right leg confused him for a second, as did the fact that his leg wouldn't come all the way over to where he wanted it. Mike scooted forward until he could pull his foot up, and stared down at his ankle in confusion. There was a chain wrapped snugly around it, secured with what looked like the Master Lock from his garage. He moved his foot, and the chain rattled again. Mike pulled his foot in closer, and watched the snaking action of the chain across the straw covered floor of the barn. It wandered out through the straw, then looped back and around the post three feet away from Mike, and then meandered over to a crumpled tarp and--

Dori! The lump of pale material was Dori, lying in a heap on her stomach, with her head turned away from him. Her right arm dangled over her back; even through her shirtsleeve he could tell the middle of her forearm was bent and grossly swollen. She wasn't whimpering anymore, she just lay there, motionless. Heedless of Jason and Bob, Mike scrambled the few feet toward her, the chain pulling in straw behind him. Stopping just short of his friend, he knelt there, his hands out, his eyes cataloging. He didn't know how long he'd been out; he knew all too well what could have happened while he was unconscious. But Dori was still fully clothed. Maybe, just maybe, they'd left her alone this time.

"Dori?" He kept his voice soft; there was no response. Warren looked up and caught him hovering over Dori, but the man only grinned and went back to mixing cocktails with Jason. Mike knew he didn't have much time.

"Dori? It's Mike." Still no response. "Dori, it's Mike, I'm gonna touch your shoulder, okay? I just want to..." Mike pulled his hand back without touching his friend at all, and sat hard in the straw beside her. All his own aches and pains crying for his attention, he laid his head on his upraised knee and stared at Dori's motionless form.

What did he want? To rescue her? It was a bit late for that. There wasn't much that he could do at this late date, except once again offer her whatever vague comfort could come from his presence here with her. He could reassure her that she wouldn't die alone. Besides, if she was truly unconscious, why should he wake her? Why make her suffer any more than she already had? Mike knew what was coming. He was a firefighter; he knew how to save his life in a fire, give himself a fighting chance. This time...this time he'd have to do the opposite. Instead of hugging the floor, looking for air and hoping for rescue, they'd have to give up, embrace and breathe in the smoke, hope the noxious fumes got them before the flames did.

Trouble was, he wasn't sure he could force himself to give up like that.

Mike reached out and lightly touched Dori's hair. No response, and Mike brushed the fingers of one hand clumsily across the side of her head and then down over the shoulder length locks, much as his own mother had comforted him as a child. Her hair was matted across her face, mixed with a dark substance. Blood. His hand trembled, and spasmed involuntarily, and his long fingers snarled in her dark hair. He held his breath, but Dori never moved. His other hand clenched into a fist, he worked his fingers loose from the tangle. Still no reaction, and Mike's breath caught in his throat as he finally freed himself. What if she was already dead?

It took him a minute, but he conquered both his nausea and the knot in his throat.

"Dori, I just want...I'm gonna check your pulse, okay?" he whispered, listening to the clinking and gurgling across the room. "It's just me, Mike, and I'm only gonna touch your neck for a minute."

He carefully pulled enough of her hair aside to touch her, sliding his fingers around to the side of her neck. The only sensation he could register through the pounding pain of his fingers was cool flesh, and for a minute his fear consumed him. Then again, maybe she would be better off if she was already dead. Mike shuddered, and gave up trying to feel for a pulse. Instead he slid his hand lightly down her back and rested it there. It only took a second for the rhythmic rise and fall of breathing to be apparent even to his damaged hands, and Mike heaved a deep sigh of relief. Maybe...maybe there was still hope. He rested his hands on her back for a moment longer.

"Aw, now ain't that cute. Fireboy's worried about my big sister. Either that or he's jealous he didn't get any last night."

Keeping his hands on Dori's back, Mike sat back and glared at Jason. One-eyed, it probably wasn't that effective, but it gave Mike at least a little bit of satisfaction. Jason chuckled, and looked over his shoulder to include Surfer Bob in the laughter. Warren grinned back obligingly. Mike didn't waste the opportunity.

Jason went down easily enough when Mike's shoulder hit his knees, but it was another matter when Mike tried to get his uncooperative hands around the punk's scrawny neck. Just like last night, Warren was all over him from behind, his arms encircling Mike, trapping Mike's arms before he could reach his objective. The other man rolled them both off Jason, the chain around Mike's ankle rattling as they went over and over for the third time in twenty-four hours. Mike struggled, but Warren had locked his hands around his chest and Mike was weakened enough from his ordeal that he couldn't break the young man's grip. They wrestled on the floor, scattering straw and tangling Mike's feet in the chain attaching him to the post. Jason loomed over them about the time Warren won the fight to be on top. He hauled Mike up to his feet and let go. Jason promptly knocked Mike flat.

Mike landed hard on the floor a foot away from Dori, hoping like crazy that the new pain flaring in his jaw wasn't because it was broken. For some reason, all the other places he'd been hurt now seemed to think it was time to complain again, and the aches and pain flared up all over his body. He laid there, trying not to choke on the straw poking at his nose. Why was he even bothering to fight anymore?

They didn't give him a chance to figure it out. Bob grabbed Mike and pulled him up onto his knees and Mike had one brief glimpse of Dori's blood covered face beneath her hair before he was swung around to face Jason.

"If you want to fight, you need some war paint, don't ya?" The razor Jason held up glittered in a stray beam of sunlight. "You and Dori can be a matching pair."

Warren had him in a headlock, trapped between his knees, and Mike's struggles were useless. He froze as the razor pressed against his cheekbone just below the corner of his eye. The thin line burned as Jason sliced over and then curved down around the middle of his cheek, then made two more curving slices on either side of the first cut.

"Not too deep," he said, grinning. "We don't want you passing out before the bonfire. Or is that the bonfire-MAN?" His tormentors shared a laugh, and then Jason grabbed Mike's hair and turned his head to do the other side. This time he drew four long slashes across Mike's cheek. Mike pushed the pain away, tried to ignore the blood slithering down his face in the wake of the razor.

They let go of him long enough to get him on the floor, but Mike had spent most of his energy and he couldn't free himself in the brief moment of opportunity. Warren straddled his hips and held his arms down while Jason knelt with one knee on his shoulder and ripped at Mike's shirt. Once it was open, he drew the razor lightly across his chest. Mike closed his eyes and bore the wet pain, refused to look. Then both men were giggling.

"Three short, three long, three short. S-O-S." Jason's amusement glittered in the shadows that were once again reaching for Mike. "Now let's do some fancy stuff..." The razor swooped and swirled, dashed and dotted across Mike's chest and upper belly. He held his breath, tried not to move any more than absolutely necessary. The stinging and burning of the razor slicing through his skin momentarily overrode all the other aches and pains that were clamoring to be noticed.

And the shadows were there, calling to him...

But the shadows abandoned him again, and he realized Jason was done. Surfer Bob's weight left him, and when he opened his eyes, both men had stepped back away from him. Mike glared up at their grins, pretending he didn't notice the pain, the blood running down his neck and from his body.

"You think you're gonna get away with this?" It was harsh, more croak than voice, but it was his, and dammit, he wasn't gonna go without having his say.

Again, Jason's grin was feral; Surfer Bob's a pale echo.

"Ain't no 'get' to it. I already have. And you're not gonna be ratting on anyone, are you?"

Mike ignored the ruthless logic of that, ignored the slanting sunlight glinting redly on the kerosene and oil mixture in the bottles behind the boys. He swallowed dust, and spoke again.

"They'll call the arson investigators. If you don't think two bodies chained inside a burned out barn aren't going to get their attention, you're nuts. Just let us go and we won't say anything. You can leave the state--"

"But I don't want to leave California. I like it here, the warm sunshine, all the pretty girls on the beach..." Jason's gaze was cold. He was done playing, Mike realized, and couldn't stop the shudder that claimed him at the thought. Weary, aching, he collapsed back into the dirty straw as the two boys turned away without another word. Her feet almost touching his, Dori had yet to move. Mike closed his eyes and hoped that she wouldn't come to now. Let her be spared at least this.

The floorboards creaked, and Mike opened his eyes. The boys were collecting their toys, gonna go somewhere else and play. Carefully avoiding the three Molotov cocktails, primed and ready to go, Warren kicked the remaining kerosene to one side. It flew into the corner of the barn, a graceful plume of liquid arcing behind it before it rattled to a stop. Some of the fuel splattered on Mike. Jason bent over and dug in the sack, coming up with a roll of duct tape. Mike once again found himself struggling beneath Warren's weight while Jason taped his mouth shut. The minute the man was off him, he sat up and tried to pick at a corner of the tape, but his fingers were so stiff and uncooperative he couldn't get a grip on it. Rubbing his face along his upper arm trying to loosen the tape didn't do any good either; it simply renewed the stinging in the cuts on his face.

Both men got a good laugh at Mike's frustration before they turned their attention to Dori. Rolling her roughly over, they taped her mouth, and at a nod from Jason, Warren turned her and pulled her hands behind her back with no regard for the broken arm. Mike's protest didn't make it past the duct tape, and all he could do was watch. Jason ran the tape around her wrists twice, and then cut it with his razor. Dori moaned, and moved a little as Jason pushed her over on her back. Jason reached up under her shirt while he leaned over and whispered something to her. She moaned again, and feebly moved her head away from Jason before going limp again. The two men laughed, and stood. Tossing the razor blade aside, Jason sauntered over towards the bound firefighter, still grinning.

"Sayonara, sucker!"

Mike managed to block most of the kick with his hands, but the momentum from the blow still landed him on his side, wallowing in dust and straw and pain again. Jason smirked, then walked around him, over to where their Molotov cocktails waited, kerosene refracting the light glancing through the open door. He handed two of the jars to Warren and, claiming the last one, turned back to Mike.

"Been nice knowin' ya, Fireboy." He sketched a jaunty salute in Mike's direction, and followed Bob into the sunlight. A few seconds later the Molotov cocktails arched in through the open door, one by one, solar flares leaping into the shadowed darkness.


	10. Chapter 10

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_Let's enter the ash,_

_Let's move with the smoke,_

_Let's live by the fire_

_~~ Pablo Neruda_

Death by asphyxiation was highly overrated, Mike decided rather quickly. Coughing in spite of the gag, he stayed low, below the gathering smoke as he crawled over to Dori. Swallowing another cough, he carefully rolled her back over on her side. That would at least take some of the pressure off her arm. She didn't rouse when he shook her, but she coughed slightly. Mike quickly scooped the area around her free of the loose straw. That done, he turned his attention toward getting them out of there.

The Molotov cocktails had landed more toward the edges of the barn's interior, their fuel spattering mostly on the stacked bales. The bales were alight, burning with angry orange flames and thick white smoke. But for now the fire seemed content with the stacked hay. The breeze from the open door was keeping the flames directed away from them, bringing in fresh air and giving them a fighting chance.

The only thing keeping them in the barn right now was the chain. Mike spent several fruitless moments trying to work the links off his ankle, wishing desperately for Jason's razor to cut the shoelaces his fumble-fingered attempts to untie were useless. But even if he could get his shoe off, the chain was tethered too tightly to come down over his heel. He checked Dori's ankle, but the same applied. Even with her bare feet, the chain was too securely wrapped for him to force it off.

Okay, that left the post the chain was wrapped around. There was another lock there, preventing Mike from just unwrapping them. Using the post for leverage, he stood, his head pounding in time with his coughing, his eyes streaming as the smoke thickened about him. His body protested as he threw his shoulder against the post. But it was solid, there was no give to it no matter how hard he hit it. Movement caught his eye, and he watched an angry tongue of flame racing up the post nearest the steadily burning bales, lapping hungrily at the loft, and jumping quickly to the moldy straw there. Damn! They had to get out of here fast, or the place was going to come down on top of them. Flaming ash and cinders floating around him, he threw himself frantically at the post. His effort gained him nothing but more bruises and lungs full of smoke.

Spent, Mike dropped to the floor. Leaning his head back against the post he strained for fresh air, fought to catch his breath and stifle the coughs. Sweat poured down his face and body as the heat built inside the barn, and the cuts from Jason's razor flared and burned as the sweat ran over them. His vision blurred, and Mike told himself it was just the smoke and heat as he wiped clumsily at his face with his useless hands. Rolling over, he tried to grab both lengths of chain, wrapping them around his wrists and yanking, ignoring the pain. Still the post refused to budge.

Dropping the chains, Mike returned to Dori and tried once again to rouse her, but she didn't respond. He leaned down to check her breathing. It was okay so far, the noxious gases mostly above her. But on his hands and knees beside her, staring at the encroaching flames, Mike was forced to admit this just might be it. This just really might be it.

A sudden breeze blew across his face, and Mike looked toward the source. The open barn door still fed the fire with fresh oxygen even as it gave them clean air to breathe. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to Dori. If they could get close enough to the door, there was a chance, a slim one, that they'd be found quickly by whatever company got called out to the fire. Mike knew it wasn't much of a chance; he knew what the firefighters would do with a burning barn on the edge of a field of hay, even if it was green hay. They'd play it safe, hang back, wait for the full alarm assignment to arrive before coming in to attack the blaze. They might not get here in time do anything more than surround and drown, never dreaming that one of their own was inside.

That was all assuming, of course, that someone had seen the smoke and called the fire in to start with.

Still it was their only chance at this point. He looked up at the flames, now spreading through the straw in the loft and reaching out for more of the barn. He sat down beside Dori, trying to figure things out. Between the sweat and the heat and his own aching body, he couldn't come up with any way to move her without hurting her already damaged arm, and in the end he simply did what he had to do.

He leaned down, clumsily pulling Dori up and propping her against his upraised knee. Her head dangled as he put his bound arms over and around her, awkwardly working his left arm between her back and his leg. His arms down around her waist now, he worked them back up so they were hooked underneath her arms. Mike took one last look at the fire blooming all around them, and began his awkward trek. It was half crawl, half walk, as he aimed for the pale square of light that was the door, dragging Dori with him through the swirling smoke.

The chain on Dori's foot brought them to an abrupt halt. Mike coughed, whether from the dust he'd raised or the smoke, he couldn't tell. It didn't matter. They were still a good six feet or more from the door. No one would be able to see them anyway, not with the way the fire was beginning to overwhelm the barn, heated air and smoke now pushing back against the fresh air feeding in through the door.

Coughing, Mike allowed Dori's body to slump to the floor beneath him. She coughed as well, and he collapsed beside her, staring up at the flames and smoke above him. The noise of the fire filled his ears, accompanied by the crackle of burning straw and the creaks and groans of the old barn as it slowly gave ground to the monster devouring it from within. For a minute, he thought he heard sirens over the roaring flames, and he lifted his head. But there was nothing but the fire and smoke around them. And after the last twenty-four hours, rescue was more than he could hope for.

Ash and blackened straw swam in the air currents; small bits of burning debris peppered the air around them. The kerosene on his shirt flared briefly, and Mike contemplated letting it burn even as he automatically rolled on his back to put the tiny flames out.

Pulled with him as he rolled, Dori jerked in his arms, and Mike lifted his head to look at her. But her eyes were still closed in her bloody face, her movement just a spasm as her body strained for fresh air. She coughed, once, weakly. He could still get closer to the door; the chain on his foot allowed him at least another two feet of distance. But he couldn't leave Dori--wouldn't leave her. His arms still around her limp body, Mike pulled Dori close and rolled forward, tucking her in beneath him, sheltering her as much as he could with his own body as the inferno slowly surrounded them.

 

* * *

 

__

_"Mike? ...arms..Mike?...breathing...God, look at...Mike?"_

The shadows had returned, and this time they wanted to keep him. Mike was willing to stay, more than willing; fire crackled around him as he eagerly gave himself to the darkness. But a voice insisted on calling his name, and the habit of obedience in the midst of smoke and flame was too ingrained for him not to respond. He turned obediently, if lethargically, and followed the sound of his name up out of the shadows, into the cool air surrounding him.

__

_"Mike? ...hear me? This...hurt....off...oxygen."_

The ripping pain across his face brought him up out of the darkness in a hurry, and, coughing, he rolled his head away from the hands that were trying to smother him with another, larger gag. The roaring of the fire joined the roaring in his ears, and his brain sluggishly tried to make some sense of what was happening to him now.

"Mike, it's okay, it's just the oxygen mask. It will help you breathe." The voice accompanied the black mask, and Mike tried again to turn his head away, coughs racking his battered body as he did so.

"No..." Someone moaned, and a second later Mike recognized his own voice, even as his head was forced back around and the mask pressed down over his nose and mouth. The hands and their voice were nothing but insistent as they fastened the gag around his head. The coughing that consumed him prevented him from removing the dark rubber that followed wherever he tried to move his face. The voice babbled on, frequently calling his name, but Mike ignored it. In spite of their bonds, he got his hands up, tried to push the mask away. But his hands were grabbed and forced back down, and no matter how hard he pulled, he couldn't get them free.

"Do...ree..." He coughed, and unwillingly sucked in great gasps of fresh air even as he fought the hands restraining him.

"Mike, it's okay. Stop it. Calm down! Mike!"

"Nooo..." His objection to the restraint was muffled by both his own coughing and the mask over his face, and he threw his head to the side in another effort to dislodge it. Pulling his knees up, he kicked at whatever was holding him down. There was a soft _oomph!_ and he was released. Freedom momentarily obtained, Mike rolled over on his side and pushed the mask off. He blinked at the dirt, then looked over at the fire burning merrily against the blue sky. Where was Dori? He had to find her, had to get her out of here before they could hurt her any more.

But the hands were pulling at him, trying to force him over onto his back while the voice talked and talked over him. Still coughing, Mike turned his head away, scrabbling at the loose dirt and trying to pull himself free.

"I need some help over here!"

The voice sounded upset, and vaguely familiar, but Mike couldn't stop to figure it out. Dori, he had to get to Dori. The world lurched about him as the hands grabbed his shoulders, but Mike threw an elbow back and was rewarded with another soft _oomph!_ and freedom. He wasn't going down without a fight. Getting his feet underneath him, he looked straight ahead. His one good eye stared blankly at Dori, lying on the ground scant feet from where he crouched.

Mask over her face, she was still unconscious, blood and bruises and soot indistinguishable from each other on her golden skin. Her shirt was completely gone and a dark-haired man bent over her, pulling at her jeans. With a hoarse roar of rage, Mike launched himself at Jason. The man looked up just as Mike's hands swung club-like at his face and Mike was rewarded with a satisfying thunk of flesh against flesh. But before he could do anything else in Dori's defense, someone grabbed him from behind--more than one someone. He struggled, but the encircling arms were relentless, bearing him back and away from Dori and the dark-haired man sprawled on the ground, one hand at his bloody mouth and staring up at Mike in shock.

Attempting to yell his defiance between coughs, Mike kicked and wriggled in their grip, but to no avail. He flung his head back, hoping to headbutt the person holding him, but the grip about his chest was relentless. In the end Mike's own abused body betrayed him. Suddenly overwhelmed by both nausea and vertigo, Mike stumbled, then fell to his knees, taking at least one of his assailants down with him. He was released as he coughed and retched helplessly, but the arms never left completely. Instead they held and supported him until the dry heaves passed. When he was done they lifted him, pulled him to his feet, supported him when his own legs wouldn't, all the while someone was talking, calling his name, reassuring him...

And, somehow, through the haze of grief and pain, he recognized this voice in his ear.

"Cap?" he husked, and was rewarded by a slight squeeze from one set of the arms supporting him.

"Yeah, Mike." The arms on his right shifted, moved around him, and when Mike lifted his head Cap's worried frown was there, the dark eyes staring down at him. Mike blinked, tried to will more of the world into some sort of one-eyed focus. He staggered, and along with Cap's quick hand, someone else caught him. Mike looked over and saw Roy's face close to his own, the paramedic's shoulder lending support to his struggle to get his feet under him. He stared dazedly at his friend, before Cap's voice pulled his attention away.

"It's okay, Mike. You're safe," Cap said, taking Mike's weight as Roy ducked away. Focusing on Cap's face, Mike took a breath, and lost it in a cough as Cap continued hurriedly. "Dori's safe too. Johnny's taking good care of her. It's all right, Mike. You're gonna be all right."

Johnny? What about Jason...? Mike blinked at Cap and then looked about him. The world was still a dizzying cacophony of sight and sound and fire, but the noises and shapes about him suddenly made sense: radios squawking and men in turnouts yelling and water hissing and behind it all, the roaring fire. A few feet beyond where he and Cap stood lay Dori. Marco knelt at her head, holding the rebreather mask on her face. Her body was discretely covered by a yellow blanket. His shirt front bloody and his lip swelling, Johnny squatted beside her, talking rapidly into the biophone he held in one hand.

The afternoon swung suddenly, doing an abrupt loop, and Mike closed his eyes as he lost his balance once more. It wasn't just shadows as he fell this time; flocks of ravens swooped in on him. But Cap was there with him, going down into the dirt beside him, cradling Mike against his shoulder, helping keep the darkness at bay for a minute longer.

"Roy, where the hell are your scissors?" Cap demanded, his voice gruff.

Mike blinked tears of relief away and Roy was there, kneeling in front of him. Leaning back against Cap, this time he accepted the oxygen mask; Roy turned away as soon as he had the oxygen in place.

"Cap," Mike croaked from beneath the mask, his bound hands going up and scrabbling at Cap's turnout coat. Impossibly, he was heard. Cap's dark gaze met his, and Mike swallowed, forcing his voice out. "Dori..." He coughed, long and hard.

"Johnny's taking care of her, Mike," Cap replied, tightening his arm about Mike's shoulders. "You had her right by the door, and we got her out. We got you both out."

Roy was back, scissors glinting in the sunlight. Mike shook his head, he had to tell them... Roy's hands moved, and the pressure on his wrists eased. His hands fell apart, his arms landing limply in his lap.

"She was...drugged...I tried...stop them..." Damn, why was his voice so weak? The world looped about him again as Cap and Roy lowered him gently to the ground. Mike grabbed at Cap's turnout coat, forced one arm to come up and try for it. Cap's frown grew even more severe and he grasped Mike's hand with his own, his hand wrapping gently around Mike's swollen fingers as he leaned over him.

"Who, Mike? Who did you try to stop?"

Mike coughed again, breathing deeply of the oxygen, willing the dark flock away. Roy was messing with his other arm, doing something Mike should probably understand, but he was too tired to try to figure it out now. As he worked, the blonde paramedic carried on a conversation with someone behind him, the strange exchange consisting mostly of numbers and letters. Cap yelled over his shoulder for someone to get the sheriff's deputy. Then he turned back to Mike.

"Mike, who was it? Who did this to you?" His voice was urgent, and his hand heavy on Mike's shoulder. Mike took another deep breath, then pulled his hand free from Cap's and pushed feebly at the mask. Cap reached up and moved it aside for him.

"Ja...Jason....Dori's brother," Mike got out, and Cap's eyes grew wide. He and Roy exchanged a shocked glance. Mike reached for Cap's hand again, and when he saw that he had Cap's attention, he whispered, "Warren."

"Warren?" Cap repeated after him. "Dori's brother, Jason, and somebody named Warren?"

Mike nodded, his one good eye closing. "They dope...doped her." His mind groped for the information he knew Roy would want. "...ludes...Quaaludes. I tried...tried to stop them...but they...I couldn't, Cap, I couldn't..." This time Mike blinked tears of frustration from his good eye, looking away from Cap's sympathy. He didn't deserve it. "They...they raped her...I couldn't stop them, I tried--"

"Shhh, it's okay, Mike. It's okay," Cap soothed, squeezing his hand slightly and giving his shoulder a small shake. Mike wondered briefly why Cap hadn't been wearing his breathing apparatus; his voice was nearly as hoarse and strained as Mike's own. His eyes bleak, Stanley pulled the oxygen mask back over Mike's face. "You did what you could, pal. If you hadn't pulled her over to the door, we'd never have seen you in time. You did what you could," he insisted, his grip tightening on Mike's shoulder as Johnny suddenly yelled for Roy.

Did what he could? Roy disappeared as Mike shook his head. Cap continued to talk, but Mike didn't listen. The ravens swooped even closer for him now. He hadn't done anything, anything at all to stop Jason and Warren. He really wasn't a rescue man. Crushed beneath that thought, Mike finally gave in, allowing the exhaustion to take over, caving in to the grief and despair that he'd held at bay for the last twenty-four hours. He heard Cap calling him as his body went limp, heard the frantic voices of both Johnny and Roy behind Cap's pleas for him to remain. But this time Mike didn't obey, didn't come back to the light and the voices and the pain. Instead, he turned and let the ravens take him.


	11. Chapter 11

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_Where were they headed, the one-winged birds,_

_tilted to compensate, dependent on thermals_

_to lift them over the mountains...?_

_~~Richard Hugo_

The itching was as good an excuse as any. Mike threw the covers back, pulled his turnout pants on, and padded out of the dorm with his boots under one arm. No one seemed bothered by his leaving; nothing in the room's pattern of light snoring and deep breathing changed. Mike closed the door carefully behind him, moving silently into the locker room. He dropped his boots on the bench before digging in his locker for the tube of medication that was supposed to alleviate the itching. It did, for about ten minutes at a time. Mike rubbed the stuff on, then headed for the sink to wash his hands. Dr. Panopoulos had taken the last of his stitches out a week ago; Mike had thought that the itching would have gone with them. But it hadn't, and he still fought to keep from scratching at the scars on his chest and face.

Mike ran the water until it was pleasantly warm, and then rinsed his hands in the sink. Finished, he leaned on the counter and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The scars on his face were still new-purple, though as the plastic surgeon had promised, they were thin and wrinkle-like. The long, lanky doctor, whose hands appeared much too large to do the delicate work for which he was famous, had assured Mike that eventually the marks would be almost unnoticeable--almost, unless someone already knew they were there, or he turned his head just right in the light. It had taken some time to remove all the stitches. Afterward the doctor had spent several long minutes checking his handiwork out with a strong light, ending with Mike's face.

Eyes closed, Mike endured the inspection. He tried his best not to think about the scars or the reason for their existence as the doctor held his chin and tilted his head this way and that under the light, muttering to himself all the while. The doctor let go of his chin and Mike opened his eyes to find the Doctor staring hard at him. Even more uncomfortable under this scrutiny, he looked away, or started too, before something in Dr. Panopoulos's dark gaze drew him back. The doctor seemed to be waiting for something...and then Mike saw them.

One side of the doctor's generous, hooked nose was peppered with minute white scars, in a pattern that ranged out along his prominent cheekbone and up around the eye. Down the side of his face spread a series of larger marks, small streaks and pockmarks down to the man's jaw. Against the doctor's dark skin, the scars were quite noticeable. If Mike hadn't been wrapped up in his own misery he'd surely have noticed them before now. Mike's gaze shot back up to meet the doctor's; he found the long thin lips twisted in a wry smile.

"Gravel," Dr. Panopoulos said, the faint accent of his birthplace a bit more marked. "I was eight. My father was angry with me, threw me from the car as we traveled down the road." The doctor paused, and smiled apologetically. "My father...he was a bit too fond of his _ouzo_. He quite ruined my good looks; it was feared I would never find a woman willing to marry such a scarred one." He waved his left hand; a gold wedding band glittered in the bright light directed at Mike's face. "But my mother's brother had emigrated, before the war, and she scrimped and saved to bring me here for reconstructive surgery. Afterwards we stayed. She lived with her brother for a long time, before I finished school and was able to support her." He paused, and his eyes twinkled. "My father stayed in Greece. With his _ouzo_."

The dark eyes held Mike's for a bit longer. Mike, unable to find anything to say, finally nodded. Switching the light off, Dr. Panopoulos pulled a handkerchief out and blown his nose. As Mike got into his shirt, the doctor advised that he avoid getting a deep tan; the scars would show up more against dark skin--like his own. Mike thanked him mechanically and headed home, wondering why he didn't feel better now that he was free of the dark, millipede-like stitches. He knew he should be grateful both to the plastic surgeon and to Dr. Early for calling him in. The man's careful work had saved both Mike and Dori from prominent disfigurement.

And it wasn't that Mike didn't understand what the doctor had tried to tell him; he just wasn't sure he was ready to believe it. Like the scars on Dr. Panopoulos's face, the scars from Jason's fling were never going to be completely gone.

Nobody at the station commented about the scarring on his face; most of them hadn't seen the damage to his torso. Mike had taken to wearing t-shirts to work beneath his regular shirts, and managed to never have to change out of them with anyone else in the room. No one had asked; he'd not caught anyone trying to sneak a glimpse of his scars. But he had caught them staring at him a time or two, and he told himself they were wondering what it looked like beneath his shirt, what the visible evidence of his ordeal was. That was one bad thing about being rescued by people you knew. The white v-neck he wore tonight covered almost all of Jason's artistry, all but two long gashes up near his neck. Beneath the shirt he looked like an extra in one of those slasher flicks Chet liked. But Chet and his horror movies had nothing on the real thing; Jason could have given Norman Bates a run for his money any day.

Mike shivered and turned away from his reflection in the mirror. Telling himself the goose-bumps were because of the late night chill in the room, he opened his locker door and grabbed his jacket. Shrugging into it, he gathered up his boots again and headed for the day room.

Making coffee in the brightly lit room kept him busy for a bit, bought him some time while he didn't have to think, didn't have to concentrate on anything but getting the right amount of water and grounds and finding a clean cup. But waiting for the water to boil was hard; there was nothing to do but stare at the pot on the burner, at the flame--and try not to remember the flames surrounding them, attempt to forget the fear as he tried to protect Dori from the encroaching blaze. The only thing that had saved them in the end was the fact that Captain Stanley, deeply worried about his missing engineer, had made an excuse to swing by Mike's house on the way home from a nearby MVA. Finding Mike's front door open, his house trashed and Mike himself missing, they'd immediately called the cops. Hanging around waiting for the county sheriff to arrive, someone--Chet, he thought they'd said--had noticed the smoke within minutes of Jason and Warren setting the old barn on fire.

And on such small coincidences, the fates hinged.

The water boiled, the coffee perked, and Mike was saved from his thoughts for a few more minutes. But then the cabinet door squeaked as he got a cup out, and he was snared by memory again. His hospital door had made that same noise, and on the second day of his stay the long creak of its opening had wakened him from an uneasy nap. He'd rolled over, opened his eyes, and found himself staring up at Jason Mahoney.

Mike's stomach had turned over and his IV had gone flying when he'd flung a hand up to ward Jason off. He was sitting up reaching for the call button before he realized that it wasn't actually Jason standing there. Something like a smile flickered in the green eyes of the man watching from his bedside, but Mike didn't think he would enjoy the joke. Dropping the call button, he reached over and clamped his right thumb on the bleeding vein left by the dangling IV, keeping his eyes on his visitor the entire time.

Silence reigned in the room as the two men stared at each other, the everyday noise of the hospital muted by the closed door as Mike watched the other man's eyes travel up and down the dark lines of stitches on his face. Max, Dori had called her step-father; Mahoney, it must be, since that was Jason's last name. Though thinking back, Mike couldn't remember her ever giving the man the title of "step-father." It was always "Jason's dad," or "Max." The resemblance Mike had seen between Jason and his dad in the family portrait was more obvious in real life, though once again, Max was much bigger than Jason. Strong, tall, heavily muscled, dressed in an expensive, tailored suit, he was the picture of the man Jason should have been.

And he had come to recruit Mike on behalf of his son. To ask Mike to drop the charges in his own case, and to refuse to testify in Dori's case. Right hand still clamped around his left arm, Mike had stared at the two cashier's checks the man held out, both for twenty-five thousand dollars, one made out to the Los Angeles County Fireman's Benefit and Welfare Fund, and one made out to personally to him.

"What about Dori?" he'd finally asked.

Max had stared at him, and again, something flickered behind his eyes. He took a deep breath, watching Mike closely before he nodded once.

"I've not had a chance to speak with her. But...I'll cover her medical bills, and the repairs to her kitchen."

Mike found he was shaking, his stomach and his fists clenched tight. If it hadn't been for the hospital gown he wore, he would have stood up and used his height advantage to try to tower over the man. But as it was, he had to settle for glaring at Mahoney from his hospital bed.

"Can you buy her face back for her? Can your money buy her life back?"

Max's hand holding out the checks slowly wavered, and sank down to the bed. Mike moved his leg away to avoid any contact with the man, even through the blankets. There was another long silence while the two stared at each other, and then Mahoney's gaze had dropped. Looking down at the checks in his hand, Max cleared his throat. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet, almost pleading--and completely unapologetic.

"Whatever else he is, Mr. Stoker, Jason's my son. My only son."

Mike refused to give in.

"And what's Dori?"

After a long pause, Max looked up and gazed steadily at Mike.

"My wife's illegitimate daughter."

The door to his room opened again, and by the time Mike looked over to meet Cap's questioning gaze and back at Mahoney, the checks had disappeared. Mahoney smiled softly, nodded once, and left the room without further word. Mike swallowed his anger and stared at the curtained window as he tried to stop the shaking that consumed him. He didn't have to explain to his Captain what he had just walked in on; Cap's angry scowl as he called for a nurse to replace the IV said he understood, all too well.

The cabinet door squeaked again as Mike shut it, and he shook the memory from him as he filled his cup. He still couldn't believe that Mahoney had thought he could buy Jason's freedom, especially when that freedom meant returning to Georgia to face rape charges there--charges that Max had apparently shipped his son out of state to avoid.

"Is this a private party?"

Mike's coffee cup shattered on the floor, and for a long second he couldn't do anything but stare at his socked feet, at the chunky ceramic islands in the brown coffee sea--and wait for his heart to get out of his throat.

"Damn, Mike, I'm sorry." Mike let Cap push him aside, didn't offer to help as the other man grabbed a clean towel down to catch the coffee before it spread any further. Leaning back against the counter, Mike tried to unknot his stomach, find some way to control his shuddering. He closed his eyes and stared at nothing but the pattern of light and dark on his eyelids, breathing deeply to the sound of Cap running water, and mopping up the floor. He had his breathing mostly under control when he heard the movement stop. Taking one more deep breath, he opened his eyes. Cap stood there, a cup of coffee held out to Mike, and an ocean of sympathy in his eyes. Proud of the steady hand that reached for the cup, Mike accepted the coffee.

Cap stepped up to a chair at the table, but Mike headed across the room, to the TV. He'd never had much use for the idiot box, especially not late night programming. A book was his preferred escape on the rare occasions in the past when he suffered from insomnia. But lately reading was as bad as not doing anything; it put his mind in gear, got him thinking. Since he had nothing else to do here at the station, TV was as good a soporific as anything. He switched it on and settled in the chair with his coffee. After a second Cap's slow footsteps followed him across the room. Mike heard joints creak as the other man settled into the couch across from him. Then there was only the sound of the TV, while Cap drank his coffee and Mike stared at the flickering images.

Captain Stanley had been there when Mike woke up in the hospital the day after the fire, had showed up when the police came to talk to him about what exactly had happened that night, and simply hung around being quietly supportive throughout the entire ordeal. Roy had been there occasionally, and Johnny; all the guys had come by at one time or another while he was hospitalized, and after he got home. But Cap was the one who'd been there consistently, day after day. Mike hadn't known what to say to him. He hadn't known if he wanted to just ignore him or talk to him, hadn't even known whether or not he appreciated his being there, or just wanted him--and the rest of his friends--to go away and leave Mike alone to wallow in the pit of his grief and sorrow.

It was Cap's intervention that had allowed him to come back to work so quickly; Chief McConnike had wanted Mike to take some time off, go visit family or something. Cap must have seen the panic he tried to hide at the thought of having more time to do nothing but think, think and remember, and, with Dr. Early's help, had successfully argued for Mike to be allowed to return to duty. And so he had, once his stitches were out.

And Cap had run interference for him with the other guys, getting them to leave him alone, to settle for the abbreviated version of his ordeal the newspapers had printed, and, more importantly, keep their sympathies to themselves. Mike knew the guys talked about him when he wasn't around; in the last few days he'd walked into too many suddenly quiet rooms filled with guilty looks. It was okay, as long as they didn't talk _to_ him. And sure, they tended to hover, but as long as they hovered in the distance, Mike didn't care. Today Johnny and Chet had gotten into a full blown argument, their first since he'd come back to work last week, and Mike was glad he didn't have to explain his relief to anyone else. Things were getting back to normal, at least in one area of his life.

Staring at his coffee, Mike realized that Dori's choked up words in the barn that day made absolute sense.

_Don't. Please, just...just don't. _Don't go there, don't tell me you're sorry, don't ask me to tell you about it, don't try to talk to me, don't try to understand my nightmare. Just...don't.

He drank his coffee, stared at the TV screen for a while. The leather couch squeaked and creaked as Cap shifted his weight, swinging his legs up and stretching them out on the couch. Mike didn't say anything to him, and, thankfully, Cap didn't say anything to him, either. The room settled once again into the quiet muttering of the television.

The hardest thing about being back at work was not being able to sleep. Released from the hospital four days after he was admitted, Mike quickly found that unless he wanted to make constant use of the sleeping pills Dr. Early pressed on him, sleeping worked better during the day. Mike hadn't wanted to accept the medication but Dr. Early had insisted, told him he could flush them all down the toilet when he got home if he wanted to. Mike had tried to, but found he didn't have the guts, not when every time he closed his eyes he got replays of that horrific night. In the dark there was nothing to distract him from his memories; in the silence there was nothing to stop the replay of sounds from his own personal nightmare.

So now he did his chores around the house at night, and during the day caught what sleep he could on the couch, in the living room, with daytime TV as his lullaby. The guys had cleaned up most of the mess from Jason and Warren's spree for him, but Mike stayed busy replacing smashed in plasterboard, mudding in the dents in the salvageable places, pulling up the scorched carpet in his living room. On his way home tomorrow he planned to pick up paint, and maybe a new light fixture or two.

The sleeping pills he used when he had to be at work the next day, had to be alert and functional during the daylight hours. It was only here, at the station, that he was expected to sleep in a dark, silent room, with nothing chemical or otherwise to mute the memories.

Mike blew on his coffee, took a drink. Cap finished his cup, got up and poured himself another. The TV went on chattering and showing pictures to itself. A commercial for a daytime soap flashed by, some character in the hospital, friends and enemies gathered at her bedside. Mike closed his eyes against the days-old memory of Dori, lying limply in ICU, respirator huffing and puffing, monitors buzzing and beeping around her. She'd gone into full arrest at the fire that day; Roy had said it was the combination of the drugs and the additional smoke after the kitchen fire. They'd revived her at the scene, Johnny and Roy, and they'd kept her alive on the way to the hospital. Mike knew he owed his friends for that, knew that if they hadn't kept Dori alive after he had failed so miserably, he might not have been able to live with himself. It was hard enough to keep going as it was, even knowing that Dori was going to live, that Jason and Warren were in jail, awaiting trial on numerous counts of arson and assault and attempted murder--and one flat out charge of murder for the death of Amanda Parsons, working girl.

But somehow, in spite of it all, Mike was still here, still going on. It wasn't getting any easier, but at least it wasn't getting any harder. If he could just hold on until he found a way out of this darkness...

Cap's quiet snore drifted across the room, and Mike scrambled to rescue the half cup of coffee before the man's lax fingers lost it completely. He moved silently back to the kitchen area to set the cup on the counter and refill his own mug before returning to his seat, once again trying to banish thoughts and nightmares in the flickering images on the TV screen.


	12. Chapter 12

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_"Taste your tears, the lime of them, the liquor._

_Give the foolish dead a second chance._

_The weather hates our poses_

_but the sun deranges men with laughter."_

_~~Richard Hugo_

Sandy Steadman was pounding a "For Sale" sign into Dori's front lawn when Mike came home the next morning. Mike nodded at the other man as he waited for an oncoming car to pass before he turned into his own driveway. Shutting the truck off, he sat for a minute and listened to the clicking of the cooling engine, watching in his rearview mirror as Sandy checked the sign's stability. Dori's brother had flown down from Sacramento as soon as the police had contacted him that first night. When Sandy'd walked into Mike's hospital room a day later, Mike had thought for sure the man was lost. Two inches taller than Mike's own six foot, two inches, with short, curly black hair and caramel skin, Sandy Steadman was the last thing Mike had expected in Dori's brother. But the eyes that had stared mournfully back at him in the hospital that day were the same huge, black eyes that stared at Mike in his nightmares--the same tear-ridden, swollen eyes that dominated Dori's face the night he helped her with Puff.

Two weeks after that first meeting, those eyes were still smoky with grief, but the tears seemed to have subsided for the time being.

Mike had gotten to know Dori's family at the hospital--mostly Sandy, as the man kept vigil in the ICU waiting room those first few days, waiting for the ten minutes every hour he was allowed to sit beside his little sister and hold her hand, begging her to wake up--to live. The restaurateur had even managed to have Max banned from visiting Dori. Mike had heard the stories of their battle from Johnny, who'd actually been there checking on Dori when it happened. He'd heard all about the row the two men had had outside ICU the night after the fire, how Sandy had argued and shouted and cajoled until he got what he wanted, the way Max's blustering and his cold anger--and his money--had simply washed around Sandy like the ebbing tide around bedrock.

Arriving with the cold storm that was her husband, Dori's mother seemed completely bewildered by what had happened to her daughter. Nearing fifty, Annette Mahoney was still breathtakingly beautiful, and, like any other expensive doll, dressed to show it off. Mike was reminded of the fragile Southern belles he'd seen in movies; women whose role in life was simply to be decorative. And, like those women, Annette seemed to function only as an accessory to her husband. Still a patient himself, Mike had found his way up to ICU the day Annette tried to reason with Sandy about Max's visiting privileges. Sandy, while he had been gentle, had been adamant in his refusal. Mike'd taken pity on the woman after Sandy stalked off, and tried to talk to her. But Annette had spent more time trying to explain what a nice boy Jason really was than she had talking about her own daughter, and Mike had been hard pressed to keep his disgust to himself. He was actually relieved to see the nurse from his own floor who'd been sent to track him down and return him to quarters.

A huge yawn pulled Mike out of his reverie, and he fought another one as he got out of the truck. To the tune of Cap's mild snores, Mike'd dozed off about an hour before the wake-up tones this morning, and that was the sum total of sleep he'd gotten in the last twenty-four hours. He leaned across he seat to pull his purchases out of the cab. He'd get the paint in the house, and crash on the couch for a little while.

"Hey, Mike!"

Mike stopped at the porch, the two cans of paint thumping on the bottom step as he waited for Sandy to cross the street. Bending over to snag the paper that lay in the middle of the yard, Dori's brother jogged across the green grass. He held the damp newsprint out, and Mike nodded his thanks as he accepted it.

"It's safe to read, today. I think you're clear." Mike rolled his eyes and then smiled slightly in response to Sandy's rueful grin. Only the fact that Dori had been raped had kept their entire ordeal off the front pages of the Los Angeles Times. The paper had printed no names and only general details, but the sensationalism of the tale, plus the fact that Mike was a firefighter, had led to the story running in far too many papers nationwide. Rampart had been hard pressed to deny the reporters, and Mike knew the private room he'd enjoyed had been less the largesse of the hospital than an attempt to keep him away from prying cameras and microphones. Sandy's outrage at what he considered their "further victimization" at the hands of the media had been vocal, and Mike had listened to and silently agreed with more than one rant on the subject from the man.

Putting his hands in his back pockets, Sandy's smile grew. He took a deep breath, and blew it out before grinning at Mike again.

"They're letting Dori go today. I'm headed out as soon as I'm done here to pick her up."

"That's great." Mike smiled with genuine relief, then waved at the sign across the street with his paper, and attempted to make conversation. "She's selling the house?" Not that he would blame her; the place had to be full of memories of Jason.

"Yeah. We talked to Dori last night," Sandy said, "and Vivien convinced her, I think." Mike nodded; he'd met Sandy's wife as well, the tall, elegant woman with the beautiful dark skin. Vivien had spent the last two weeks shuttling between Dori's hospital bed and the successful gourmet restaurant she and Sandy owned up in Sacramento.

Sandy took a deep breath. "Dori hates to let this place go, but I...we just can't see leaving her down here by herself now. Not after..." Staring across the street at Dori's house, Sandy's voice trailed off, and after a second, he swallowed hard. Mike didn't say anything; his own suddenly hollow chest wouldn't let him.

Sandy shook his head and turned to Mike. His gaze was dark, pleading, and there were noticeable shadows beneath his brown-black eyes, even beneath the caramel skin. Mike knew that his own nightmares had to have replayed for this man over and over. He had the sudden wild urge to offer Sandy the rest of the sleeping pills sitting in his bathroom medicine cabinet. He even opened his mouth, but before he embarrassed himself by saying anything, Sandy's gaze dropped, and he stared down at the paint cans by Mike's feet.

"God, if I'd known that Jason was even in the same _state_ with her, I'd have been down here before you could spit. That kid has _never_ been normal...I..." He shook his head, brought his pleading gaze up to Mike again. "She didn't tell me. She didn't tell me that he was here, but I should have known something was up. Dori was supposed to come to Sacramento while Cara was gone, said she might as well take her vacation at the same time. Then she called about a month ago, said she was too busy, and couldn't make it. I wondered what had happened, she was so excited about the visit when we first planned it..." Sandy looked down at his feet, shifted them minutely. "I should have known," he repeated, mournfully.

His throat dry, Mike didn't have anything to say; he'd lived across the street from Dori and seen the way Jason treated her, listened to the fights they'd had and ignored it himself. He sat suddenly on the porch steps, staring up into the sun at Sandy. He wasn't sure he had the strength to deal with Sandy's guilt, not on top of his own. But Sandy, unaware of Mike's distress, simply dropped down and joined him on the porch steps. Mike leaned back against the step behind him. In spite of the tightness in his throat and chest, he found himself fighting a large yawn. Oblivious, Sandy sat hunched forward, his elbows braced on his knees and his hands clenched in front of him.

"You know, that bull Max feeds everybody about her being illegitimate..." Sandy looked over and stared straight at Mike for a second, before looking down at his hands. "Dad...he would have married Annette even before the pregnancy, if her family hadn't objected. Neither family was thrilled with them, but her family, Annette's, they were really hot about the entire thing. They're Old Blood, been in the South since way back." Sandy snorted. "They still think they're pure French. It was bad enough in their eyes that Annette got involved with Dad, they weren't about to let her marry the guy--or have his child. It didn't matter how she felt or how light-skinned he was, they just cared that his birth certificate said, 'colored.'" Sandy's tone made the word an epithet, and Mike winced as Sandy went on, thoughtfully. "You know, Dad and Annette probably would have gone their separate ways, except for Dori."

Sandy paused, and sighed, and Mike shifted further away from him. Catching himself, he eased back over, just enough that it didn't look like he was trying to avoid the airing of Dori's family laundry. Again, Sandy didn't seem to notice his discomfort, his dark gaze turned inward.

"Annette, she came to Dad, told him they were going to force her to get an abortion. Her family, they had that kind of money, that kind of clout. It was the first Dad had heard of the baby, and he took her to the Justice of the Peace that day. Me, I was almost 15. Nothing like being best man at your Dad's wedding." Sandy smiled just slightly, and Mike nodded, pushing away his own memories of his mother's remarriage. That was an old grief he didn't need on top of what he was dealing with now. Sandy was still talking. "... moved us all to California just to get away from everybody. We were happy, here, too. I was happy, Dad and Annette were happy, and Dori..." Sandy closed his eyes, and Mike turned away from the pain that washed across the other man's face. He reached up and picked at a fragment of paint on the porch railing. He really needed to get out here and repaint. The flake of pigment crumbled and dropped to the step beside his foot as Sandy's recitation went on.

"Dori was such a pretty baby, all that dark hair and those big black eyes. She'd laugh and chatter with anyone and she was just so damn happy all the time." Sandy's voice faltered, then grew grim. "Then when she was five Dad got sick, and it was less than a month before he died, and then Annette moved home and a year or so later I heard she married that...that...." Sandy stared intently across the street, then looked back at Mike.

"Dad knew Annette would go home, he knew..." Sandy's throat worked, convulsively. "And he was worried about Dori, about how they'd treat her, 'cause of him being her father. Before he died, Dad, he made me promise to look after Dori, 'cause he said no one else would." Sandy's voice caught, breaking beneath the weight of his guilt. "I tried, dammit, I tried, but I was twenty when Annette married Max, trying to support myself through college, and they were across the country--" Sandy's voice broke again, and he took a deep breath before continuing his tale. "When Dori was twelve they sent her to live with me and Vivien for a while, because she couldn't get along with Jason." The sneer in Sandy's tone said he believed that about as much as Mike did. The man's voice was barely audible as he continued, and Mike studied the pattern of nails on the step beneath his feet, fighting his own exhaustion, hunching his shoulders just slightly, bracing himself as Sandy's guilty recitation droned on.

"She was so quiet, and she would hardly smile for months, and, and no matter what we did she was so afraid all the time...I mean, I knew Jason was a brat, I knew they didn't treat her well, but...Vivien finally got her to talking one night, and...God, I had no idea, none. I called Annette the next day, told her that Dori could stay with us, that we'd adopt her and...They made her come home the next week. I...we didn't have the money to sue for custody in court, everything we had was going into getting the restaurant started and...and there just didn't seem to be anything we could do. I mean, I sent Newf home with her, the dog we got her before Puff, and she seemed okay when she came back out here for college. But she had to borrow money for the out-of-state tuition from Max and... and...now I wonder if we didn't give up too easily, if we just didn't want to believe she was in that bad a situation. That maybe there really was something we could have done...that maybe..."

Sandy's anguished confession trailed off awkwardly, and they sat in silence. Mike sighed heavily, rubbing at his eyes, fighting yet another yawn. He'd seen the two versions of Dori Sandy'd just described, the bright, cheerful woman who'd been his neighbor, and the pale, silent version that existed in Jason's shadow. And Mike knew that he should offer comfort, encouragement to the distraught man beside him, but right now their nightmares were just too similar, too much the same, both of them failing to protect one dark-haired, dark-eyed child. He studied the toes of his shoes for a moment, and then took a breath, looked up to find Sandy staring at him, tears running down his face.

"I know I thanked you, but I never... I wanted to..." Sandy's eyes closed, he swallowed convulsively again, and then looked back at Mike. Both his voice and his gaze were steady this time. "Thank you. Again. For what you did, for...for everything." His hand waved over Mike, toward him, the motion somehow encompassing all Mike's scars from that night, both inner and outer. Mike stared, unable to comprehend this sudden turn of events. Sandy's gaze held his own, and his voice was low, intense as he went on. "Thank you for fighting for her, for trying to help her, trying to get her away from that son of a bitch, and for...for not giving in." Sandy blinked hard, looked up at Mike's house. "Your Captain told me that if you hadn't pulled her over to the door, they'd never have found either of you in time. He also said that you could have gotten out more, closer to the door, but that...that you stayed with her. Tried to keep her safe, protected her from the fire..." Sandy's voice was just a harsh whisper now, and his own throat was choked so tight Mike couldn't have said anything in response, even if he'd known what to say.

"I read the police reports...she'd be dead now, if you hadn't been with her. She'd be dead, and Jason would probably be home free, and..." Once again those dark eyes, so like Dori's, regarded him closely. "I know it was hard for you, horrible, but..." Sandy's gaze dropped to the steps beneath their feet, and then looked up and met Mike's wondering stare as he fired the final shot. "Thank you for not leaving her alone. For being with her. For surviving with her. Because she wouldn't have survived if she'd been alone."

His mouth opened, but Mike couldn't force any words past the vise grip his emotions had on his throat. Finally, he simply nodded, looking away, unable to face the other man's tears, fighting his own at the same time. Boards creaked, and Sandy's hand was warm on his shoulder for a second. Mike looked up just as Sandy removed his hand. Blinking away his own tears, Sandy nodded once, and then turned and headed across the street. Mike watched him go, and then somehow managed to find his feet and stumble into his own house before he lost control completely.

 

* * *

 

Mike answered his doorbell that evening to find Cara standing on his porch. He stared at her for a panicked moment, not certain he could face another potentially disastrous emotional confrontation. Somehow he succeeded at pushing aside his nausea, and even dredged up a return smile for her.

Cara had returned from Colorado three days ago, but Mike had avoided her at the hospital, and made himself scarce the time or two he'd seen her car across the street. He knew she was helping pack things up before Dori left for Sacramento, but he had no idea how he was going to talk to her now. How could he tell Cara that every time he looked at her he saw not her, but a dead woman's photo in the newspaper? That he couldn't think of going out with her without thinking of what Jason had wanted to do to her--of what he'd done to Dori?

Well, looked like he was going to have to say something now, one way or another. To break the moment, he pushed the screen door open and stepped out on the porch, telling himself his house was still too much of a mess from the repair efforts to invite anyone in. Clear hazel eyes regarded him steadily when he faced her, and Mike couldn't prevent the flush that rose in his face--nor could he miss the way her eyes widened as she stared at the scars, brought out even more by the color in his cheeks. Irritated with himself, and briefly with Cara, he turned away and walked over to the thigh-high railing, dodging a stray moth fluttering toward the bare bulb of the porch light. Hands in his pockets, Mike leaned against an upright beam, and he stared out into the quiet neighborhood, lit hazily by the nearby streetlights. For a moment the night seemed to hold its breath. Then movement behind him, and a soft hand on his arm.

"Mike..."

He glanced back at her, fighting another irrational surge of anger as he saw her eyes irresistibly drawn to the scars on his face. She must have seen his reaction, though, because her hand fell away from his arm, and she dropped her gaze to the peeling paint beneath their feet.

"I just... I wanted to apologize." She looked up then, tossing her hair back with a determined gesture, and Mike's heart ached. Cara was still a pure, clean flame, her bright fire unsullied by Jason's touch. He shifted, pulled one hand half out of his pocket, wanting to reach out, to touch her, draw some of that clarity, that purity in for himself. But Cara's eyes slid away from his and she stared at a point just over his left shoulder. Mike dug his hand deep into his pocket and leaned back against the porch as she spoke.

"I never...when Jason slipped me the mickey that night...I just..." Her eyes closed, and he longed for the long, clean lines of her as her throat worked. Opening, her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and it was her turn to flush when she met his gaze. "I thought...I thought it was kind of cute...that maybe he was...he was insecure about girls, about asking me out...I never...I never dreamed he'd... I never..."

Taken aback, Mike stared at her. Her gaze flitted past his, fighting the attraction of the scars on his cheek before she turned to stare out into the neighborhood beyond the oasis of light on his porch. She shook her head and ran one hand along the porch railing, leaning away from him.

"If I'd thought more about it, if I'd realized...I just...I mean, he was always so nice to me, and even though I knew he and Dori didn't get along. I just never thought...I never saw... she tried to warn me, and I just thought... I thought it was sour grapes on her part, about you, about Jason, oh, about everything--"

"It's okay," he interrupted, his heart sinking as he abruptly realized what it was Cara wanted, why she was here. It wasn't for him, or for Dori. This conversation was about her--_for_ her. So he might as well give her what she had come for. He knew it well enough; it was the whip he'd been beating himself with for the last two weeks. "You didn't know."

Cara stiffened as his words dropped beside her. She swiveled around, her fine brows drawn together, her desire and her hunger clear.

"But if I'd said something, if I'd asked Dori, really asked her..."

Mike shook his head and she stopped, her entire being tense, waiting. His stomach turned at what he was about to do, but there wasn't any way he could stop her, no way to make her see. Rather than face her hunger, his eyes followed a moth away from the porch light, out into the night, and he shrugged.

"Who would you have said anything to? There wasn't anyone really who could have stopped him." _You could have, _his conscience whispered, _she could have told you. You would have believed her._ Mike shoved the thought away, ignored the truth of it even as he focused on Cara again. "It wasn't your fault, Cara."

There was a flash in her eyes as he spoke; gratitude, he thought, but he couldn't be sure. She hitched her butt up onto the porch railing, her arms braced beside her hips, and stared earnestly at him.

"I didn't know." Her tone was confidential. "I mean, I knew they fought, but I never thought...I never thought it was anything... anything like _that_." Whatever "that" was, Mike understood it was ugly, unmentionable. Cara went on. "Jason, he never...he was always nice to me. He could be really sweet, really cute. I never in a million years dreamed he would...he was anything like, like _that_." Her words rushed out, tumbling over each other as if she still wasn't quite sure of his gift, as if she wanted him to offer it again. Mike ignored the second appearance of the term "that". His skin was crawling because of the cool night air, that's all.

"It wasn't your fault," he repeated, and the guilt flowed away from her like moonlight. Mike successfully fought the irrational urge to yell at her, to tell her it was _all_ of their faults, hers, Sandy's, his, for ignoring the signs, for choosing to look away, for staying within their own lives, for not stepping out to protect Dori... But because she sat there on his porch, lovely and clean and pure and needing so desperately to be released from all this, he did so. He gave her absolution. "There was nothing you could have done."

Like a spun glass flower in the instant before it breaks, Cara stared at him. Then she blinked, and he tried to ignore the motion of her breasts beneath her shirt as she breathed deeply, the flower shivering, becoming real again.

"That's what Dori said." Cara rubbed her arms and stared at the floor. The silence lasted for almost a full minute, and then she shifted, watched the moths fluttering about the porch light as she said, "Dori's letting me have all the kitchen equipment and everything, to buy out her part of the partnership. I found a little place in Pasadena I can work out of, and try to get things going again. It will be hard, by myself, but I think... I think I can do it. I've never been afraid of a little hard work." Her smile was bright, brittle, when she turned her back on the moths and hopped from the railing to stand next to him.

"That's great," Mike said, and watched Cara fight the urge to stare at the scars on his face again. Meeting his gaze, she flushed, suddenly, oily smoke wafting over a polluted flame.

"Well, call me when things settle down a bit for you, okay?"

Her own guilt absolved, she watched from across the chasm of his yet unresolved as he hesitated, then said, "Sure." For a moment, she lingered, her gaze coming up to his in an almost apology for what might have been. But Dori remained between them, and much as he longed to join her on the other side of that gulf, he couldn't--wouldn't--make the leap that Cara had made. After a second, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, then turned and walked down his steps, back to her safe little world of sunshine where creeps like Jason were only seen on the evening news and the ones who carried his scars could be pitied from a safe distance.

Watching her lilt down his sidewalk, a deeper shadow against the shadowed night, Mike tried to tell himself she hadn't avoided the scars when her lips touched his cheek.

 


	13. Chapter 13

__

_In the night we shall go in_

_up to [the] trembling firmament,_

_and your hands, your little hands_

_and mine will steal the stars._

_~~ Pablo Neruda_

Three days later, Mike wove his way through the arthritic trees in the old orchard behind Dori's house, heading toward the grave he'd dug for Puff--two long weeks and a couple of lifetimes ago.

"She's saying her goodbyes," Sandy'd said five minutes ago, when he knocked at the front door of the yellow house. Avoiding the gaze from those dark eyes, black with sympathy, Mike had nodded. And then because it had taken him all night last night rehearsing and most of the day today to screw up his courage for this, he didn't hang about to talk as Sandy prepared the last few boxes for the movers arriving in the morning. He simply headed out to find Dori.

This would be the first chance he'd had to talk to her without anyone else around, without nurses or Sandy or Cap or anyone else listening or hovering or just being there, being concerned. Not that what he had to say was any great secret, he just didn't want to share it with any more people than he absolutely had to. And right now that meant any one besides Dori.

Last night as he stared at the flickering TV from his couch, his sleep-deprived brain and soul had jointly concluded that if he could just confess his failure, maybe, just maybe, he could find some peace. The one person who'd been most affected by his failure was Dori. Mike knew he needed to apologize to her, finally say he was sorry for failing her, for not protecting her, for not rescuing her. He'd put it off as long as he could; now her impending departure left him no more room to procrastinate.

Working his way into the orchard, he saw her through the knobby branches, kneeling in the dirt in the middle of Puff's grave. Mike made sure to make enough noise that he didn't startle her with his approach.

"Dori?" he called, halting beneath a tree two long strides away from her.

She glanced up and leaned back, lifting the uncasted arm to wave him on. The other arm, in heavy plaster up past her elbow, dangled in a sling about her shoulders. Her eyes bright, she gave a little deprecating shrug as he stopped just short of the grave. Mike braced both hands on a gnarled branch above his head. Dori's smile flickered and disappeared as she gestured at the grave and its new adornment.

"It's not much, but...I wanted to leave something here, to honor...to remember..." Her voice faded, and her gaze darted away, then came back to him. Shadows beneath her eyes had replaced the bruises, and her face was gaunt, hollow from the weight she'd lost during her hospital stay. Like Dr. Panopoulos, her skin was just dark enough that the scars she sported, an ugly "X" on one cheek and a large, uneven "O" on the other, would always be noticeable. Dr. Panopoulos's fine work could only do so much.

Mike peered beneath the branch and nodded his understanding.

"Yeah," he said, softly, and her smile flickered again. She left a streak of dirt across her cheek when she wiped at her nose and eyes with her soiled hand.

"It's a yellow tea rose. They're my favorite; they stand for fidelity and friendship. According to Mrs. Caraveggio, this one, once it gets a bit bigger, you should be able to smell it from the swing in the back yard."

Surprised, Mike glanced over his shoulder at Dori's back yard, a hundred feet distant through the trees and around the tool shed. But Mrs. Caraveggio knew her roses, so he kept his skepticism to himself and returned to watching Dori.

One handed, she was pushing more dirt up around the base of the small rose bush, patting it lightly down. Mike waited until she was almost done, and then stepped up and reached for the watering can sitting just behind her. He lifted the heavy container in one hand as she gathered up her spade and small soil fork. Dori scooted backwards as he came forward to pour the water over the bush. Mike paid careful attention to the chore, seeing to it that the water sprinkled carefully over the dark green leaves and then around the stem until the dry soil turned a warm brown from the moisture.

Her legs curled under her, hand limply clasping her tools, Dori sat and stared at the plant when he was done, and after a minute Mike dropped the empty can and sat down beside her. She seemed almost unaware of his presence as he crossed his feet and wrapped his arms around his upraised knees and tried to relax beside her. This was the first time in a long time he'd just sat and been quiet. These days there were too many things he was busy trying not to think about.

It was pleasant in the old orchard, the odd buzzing insect and butterflies the only motion beside the leaves in the nearly indiscernible breeze--the breeze that all Mike's words and courage had wafted away upon. The water drops on the leaves sparkled brightly in the late afternoon sunshine. Faintly in the distance, Mrs. Patterson was calling to her children, and the radio played indefinable music in Mrs. Caraveggio's kitchen. A car drove by on the road, but all the sounds were faint, muted, and hard to use as an excuse for what he had come here to do.

Pulling at a stray blade of grass, he watched the root as it came up from the ground for at least a foot before breaking off. After a few seconds staring at the narrow trough in the dirt, he swallowed hard. His purpose here today was to try to lay at least one of the demons haunting him to rest on his own, and he'd better get to it. A dragonfly darted by, and Mike watched it out of sight as he tried to find the words he'd rehearsed so carefully before crossing the street.

"Dori..."

She jumped, took a deep breath, and before he could say anything, she turned to him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears again.

"It's hard to believe it all happened sometimes, you know? Especially on a day like today." The arm in the dark blue sling lifted in a hurried half wave at the trees, at the gentle summer afternoon surrounding them. She laughed hoarsely, nervously. "I think...I still expect Puff to come running up wanting to play, I still expect to hear Mrs. Caraveggio yelling at him for digging in her rose bushes, I still..." her voice trailed off, and it was her turn to swallow hard. "I still..." She ducked her head and the rose bush wasn't the only thing dripping water onto the dirt.

Mike's stomach knotted, the vision of Dori curled in upon herself that day in the barn flashing over the sight of her today, head hanging. He hesitated, unsure once more whether or not he should touch her. But she was shaking, now, and after a long second, Mike hitched himself across the scant foot that separated them, and dropped an arm around Dori's shoulders. He drew her in, held her like his first instinct had been to do that day in the barn.

Today, instead of pushing him away, she turned to him, dropping the tool she held and grasping his shirt with her free hand. Her face pressed against his shoulder, the cast digging into his side as Mike tightened his arm about her and, for lack of anything better to do with it, brought his other hand up to rest clumsily in her hair. His own throat tightened and his eyes watered as she sobbed convulsively against him. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the storm was past. Dori sat up, pushing away from him, dislodging his hand from her hair and almost but not quite shrugging his arm off. Mike dropped his hand to the grass behind her, and watched while she once again wiped at her face, avoiding his gaze.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, picking up the tail of her shirt and taking another pass at her face. She inhaled deeply, and then shook her head. Staring off into the distance, she said, "Sometimes I think that all I've done the past three weeks is cry. You'd think eventually I'd run out of tears."

Mike opened his mouth to answer; he wasn't sure what he was going to say, but before he could get anything out of his own constricted throat, Dori had moved. Shifting carefully, she scooted several inches away, and propped her cast on her upraised knees. Mike braced himself on his arm behind her, watching as she picked at the sparse grass.

"Sandy told me some of what the police reports said. He told me that you saved my life, that...that I would have died in the fire, but for you." Mike shook his head, ready to deny that he'd saved her from anything, but Dori wasn't watching him. She laughed once, bitterly. "I spent most of last week in the hospital trying to decide if I hated you or not."

Whatever words Mike had salvaged from his nice little speech went flying at that. Dori met his gaze almost defiantly for a second before her face crumpled. She turned away, but not before he saw the tears start to fall again.

"I didn't want to be alive, I didn't want to have to live with...with... I mean, it was bad enough that it happened, but when I saw you there in the barn that day, and realized that you...that you'd been there, all along..." Her voice strangled on the tears choking her as she dropped her head down to rest on the cast. Mike stared helplessly at her.

"Dori, I'm sorry. I tried, I tried to stop them, but..." It was his turn to look away, to lose his voice in the emotions choking up his throat. "I...they surprised me, and I was trying to hold onto you and..." And what? He'd lost every single fist fight he'd been in in grade school? Long tall guys like him weren't meant for boxing? Mike yanked up a handful of grass in frustration, threw it uselessly into the air. As the slim green blades fluttered back past him, he got to his feet. Stalking over to a tree, he stared through the orchard out to the field of alfalfa, just beginning to show gold among the green.

"I'm sorry," he ground out, clenching his fists and silently cursing the tears that wouldn't go away. "I should have come over sooner, I should have known something was wrong, I should have--"

Dori's hand on his arm stopped his self-flagellation, and he stared down at her tear-streaked face. She was shaking her head, her gaze horrified.

"Mike! Oh my god, Mike, that's not what I meant." She stared up at him for a minute, and then swallowed and dropped her gaze. "My god...you were there, you tried to stop them. I just...I didn't want for you, for anyone...to, to...be there, when they were, you know...." Her voice faded as he stared at her, dark hair falling down about her scarred face like streaks of soot.

A cricket sang longingly for a mate in the silence that fell around them, and then suddenly Dori took a breath, and looked up at him.

"When I saw you there, I didn't think you were real at first. I thought I was hallucinating, seeing things. And then...then I realized it was you, that you'd been there, that you'd seen it all, and I...I was...I was embarrassed. A-a-ashamed. It was easier to think about that than...than..." Her eyes shifted, looked away, off to one side.

"I didn't watch. I...wouldn't. I couldn't."

The words were out before he thought about them, and Dori's eyes grew wide, the terrified bird look again. Her hand fell away from his arm, and Mike flushed and looked away, stared at the broken ground and long grass beneath his feet. No, he hadn't watched, but he'd heard, far too much, and they both knew it. His stomach twisted, and he tried to convince it to untwist during the long silence that followed. Dori's feet moved, scuffed, and when he looked up again, she stood a few feet from him, staring out cross the alfalfa as he had been just a few moments ago. The barn was a pile of ashes and ruined boards in the distance that neither one of them would look at.

Casting a glance back toward him, Dori lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug, a movement she must have learned from her mother. He watched as she played with the small twigs on the tree trunk, pulling a couple of leaves off and dropping them to the ground.

Then her mouth opened; it took a moment for the words to begin to flow again. "And...and...when Sandy told me I was only alive because you pulled us close enough to the door for the firefighters to find us, then I was angry. I hated you because I didn't want to be alive, I didn't want to have to face this, I didn't want to have lived through it." Tears streaming down her face, Dori's turned, meeting his gaze again.

"Then Sandy told me how upset you were that you hadn't been able to stop it. How you'd fought them." She stepped over, her hand grasped his, pulled it up between them. Her voice was soft as she ran her thumb briefly over his knuckles. "That they weren't sure at first if you'd get the complete use of your hands back. And I..." She dropped his hand and reached up, tracing the fine purple lines on his face with one finger. Then her shoulders slumped and her hand fell to her side as she turned away from him, refusing to look at him. "I'm so sorry, Mike. I've been trying to figure out how to apologize to you, for bringing Jason into your world, for you getting involved in our sorry little lives...for the things they did to you..."

Mike blinked his tears away, and reached for her shoulder.

"Dori."

He pulled her around, his arms going about her shoulders. After a second her arm went about his waist, the fingers of her broken arm grabbing at his shirt. As they held each other tightly Mike didn't know if it was Dori's sobs or his own that shook them. The sun dropped slowly behind the trees as they stood there, sharing their sorrow. Then Dori sniffled loudly. Her voice was muffled against his chest.

"Martha, the...the rape counselor the hospital sent...she said...she said we've won the first battle, because we survived." Mike adjusted his arms around her, laid his cheek on her head for a moment. Dori sighed, then went on. "She said now...now we have to win the war. We have to take our lives back from him, from them, from what they did to us."

Mike didn't say anything, he wasn't sure he could. Then Dori stood up straight, stepped away from him. Wrapping her arm around herself this time, she whispered, "I'm not sure I'm going to make it, Mike. I'm not sure I can fight. I'm just so tired all the time. It's hard to even keep going most days, let alone think about fighting."

His arms dangling at his sides, Mike met her gaze, nodded.

"I know," he whispered, and there was another moment of silence, of shared sorrow. Dori's gaze flicked away, then back up at him.

"You...you might want to talk to Martha, Mike. She's...she's really good."

Mike thought his heart would break again as Dori leaned infinitesimally away from him, as though afraid of his reaction to her suggestion. He reached up, brushed more tears from her cheek, smiled at her when she lifted her face to him.

"I might," he offered, diffidently. Her eyebrows went up in surprise, and Mike shrugged. "Cap...and the Chief...they think I need to talk to someone...see someone about all this. Said...said it might help me deal with it a bit."

His turn to look away, to be uncomfortable--just as that particular conversation with Cap had been, for both of them. Cap had been apologetic, but firm in his delivery of McConnike's order for Mike to get some counseling to help him "deal" with his experiences. They'd given him a choice of the Department's counselor, or finding his own shrink, but there'd been no choice about the command itself. Seems they thought a firefighter who'd failed as miserably as Mike had at rescuing someone--from a fire, no less--might have some "issues" with fire-related rescues in the future. Of course, Captain Stanley had cast things in a much nicer light, but Mike understood the real point.

Trouble was, they were probably right. That is, if his nightmares were anything to judge by. Keeping his eyes on the ground between his tennis shoes, Mike shifted, leaned back against the tree with both arms behind him, completely aware that Dori was staring at him.

"You're not sleeping, are you?" she said, and Mike froze for a second. Then he shrugged again, reaching out to pick at the bark on a nearby branch as he refused to meet her direct gaze.

"I'm getting by." A large chunk of bark broke off, and they both watched it drop to the ground.

When Mike looked up, Dori was still staring at him. After a second, she shook her head.

"Liar," she said, and smiled grimly when his mouth dropped open in shock. "Sandy said there's lights on at your place all night long." Neither one of them had to explain why Sandy knew about the lights at Mike's house. There was another long silence, and then Sandy's voice came, calling both of them. Dori's smile was apologetic.

"I think he's anxious to get home. Our flight leaves in a couple hours."

Mike nodded, still leaning against the tree. He scuffed at the grass, trying to organize his thoughts, trying to find the words he still needed to say, words he ought to say in the seconds that remained to them. But meeting Dori's gaze, he realized that perhaps enough had been said, for now. Dori turned and smiled as Sandy walked into the silence between them, and Mike took the opportunity to wipe hurriedly at his face before standing up and giving Sandy his own tight smile. The huge wet spot Dori's tears had left on his shirt was, he hoped, self-explanatory.

Nobody said much as they walked back to the house, Sandy's arm protectively about Dori's shoulders. They paused for Sandy to turn on the outside faucet for Dori to rinse her hand, and then headed around the back of the garage to the driveway. Mike was shocked to find Annette standing beside a gold Mercedes in the driveway. Dori must have been too, because she halted abruptly. Mike stopped next to her, and Sandy briefly tightened his arm about his sister's shoulders.

"She asked if she could do this. Don't worry, Max left this morning. And it's probably the first thing she's done that he didn't approve of in years."

Staring at her mother fidgeting with her keys, Dori wiped at her face. She nodded, then slipped out from under Sandy's arm. Her brother took the tools she handed him, and then Dori walked forward, alone. Mike felt like a voyeur as he watched the two women greet, and then Annette hesitantly put her arms around Dori and hug her.

Collecting both spade and fork in one hand, Sandy snorted as Dori and her mother stood by the car, talking quietly.

"Maybe seeing Jason in his natural element down at the jail is waking her up a bit." Mike shook his head, and Sandy waved his free hand toward Mike's house. "Sorry about the three stooges over there. I think they kinda freaked when they got here and your house was open but you weren't around. I told them I'd retrieve you."

Puzzled, Mike looked over at his house. Johnny's Land Rover sat in the driveway behind his pickup, and Johnny, Chet and Marco were draped over the porch railing and across his steps. They all three straightened up as Johnny pointed across the street at Mike. Mike ignored them, and smiled back at Sandy. Three stooges, indeed. But who was who? Larry, Moe or Curly? Making those assignments was more than he could deal with right now. He shook his head and followed Sandy out to the driveway.

Annette was already getting in the driver's side of the car and Sandy opened a back door for Dori. She started to get in, and then stopped. Returning to Mike, she gave him a fierce, one-armed hug. Aware of far too many eyes on the scene, his response was awkward. Throat sore from the tears he'd shed, and the ones he had yet to shed, Mike tried to speak, and then swallowed hard, and tried again, twice, before he could get the words out.

"Dori...you...you keep fighting," he whispered. "You'll make it one of these days." He felt rather than saw her nod, his own eyes watery. She leaned back in his arms, her tears sparkling red and gold in the lowering sun.

"You fight too, okay?" she asked, and those huge eyes refused to look away until he conceded, however reluctantly.

"Yeah. I will." he said, refusing to look across the street at his friends waiting at his house, insisting on the same thing Dori was, that he fight and not give in, that he not let what Jason had done to them, to him, ruin his life. At this moment he didn't know whether or not he hated or blessed them for their concern. Movement in his arms; thankfully, Dori was releasing him before he was completely undone.

Stepping over to the car, Dori smiled, a long, slow, sad smile.

"Guess I'll be seeing you around, Fireman Mike."

Choking on his own emotions, Mike nodded, found half a smile for her.

"Yeah," he said, and knew they were both ignoring the fact that the next time they saw each other would probably be at either Jason or Warren's trial. But that was in the future, and they'd deal with that when they got to it. Today...today it was enough that they were alive. Tomorrow or the next day they'd worry about fighting, about winning the war.

Dori slid into the back seat, and Sandy shut the door behind her. Glancing at the tools still in his hand, he held them out to Mike with a smile and a shrug. Mike took them, and waited as Sandy reached for his wallet. Pulling a business card from the sleek leather, he held it out to Mike, who took it automatically with his free hand. _The Dancing Crane_, it read beneath a logo of a long-legged, dancing bird, _Fine Continental and American Cuisine. _

"Anytime you're in Sacramento, dinner's on us. Bring your whole crew if you like." Sandy waved over his shoulder toward the gallery on Mike's porch. Then he pulled the card from Mike's grip, turned it over to show the handwritten address and phone numbers on the back. "But...feel free to just bring yourself, if you like. We've got lots of room, and it's a great place to get away from---from whatever." Sandy's gaze was steady, intense. "I'm serious, Mike. Come on up, whenever. You're always welcome. And...if you ever need to talk, or, or...whatever," he repeated, "just call. Call anytime, okay?"

Mike met this second pair of huge dark eyes, returned the intense stare, nodded in acknowledgment of the seriousness of the invitation. Sandy held his gaze for a minute, then smiled hugely, looking more like his sister than ever at that moment.

"Besides, you know the food's gonna be incredible, with two gourmet cooks in the house. You'd be a fool to pass that up, man." Mike grinned in spite of himself, and used the smile to lever back the other, harder to handle emotions. Sandy slapped his shoulder, and headed around the Benz to the passenger door.

Mike stood in the driveway as Annette carefully backed the car out, and then there was one last wave from Dori and Sandy, and they were gone. Taking a deep breath, Mike slowly crossed the street, pocketing Sandy's business card as he got to where his friends were still waiting on his front porch. He wasn't sure he was up to dealing with them; wasn't sure he was up to throwing them out, either.

Johnny, seated on the steps, and Marco, leaning against the stair rail, looked worriedly at him, but Mike refused to meet their gaze. Instead he stared at Chet, standing on the porch, arms full of two bags of groceries.

"I know it's been a while, but you said if I brought the munchies, I could watch the game over here," Chet said, sounding just the least bit sheepish. Mike stared at the long zucchini peeking out of the bag in Chet's right arm. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what _that_ had to do with munchies for a baseball game. Strained silence held them all for a moment, and then Johnny sat up straight and opened his mouth. Before the dark-haired paramedic could say anything, Mike shrugged. What the hell. If he expected to ever start winning this battle, he could use all the help he could get. He took the three stairs in one long step.

"Sure," he said, handing the spade and fork to Chet, who managed to take them without dropping either sack. Mike opened the screen door and reached in to switch on the porch light against the gathering dusk. Then he held the door open and waved his friends in ahead of him. "Come on in."

 

 

_The end..._


End file.
